Masquerade
by Aliet Faslami
Summary: Movieverse 2007 An accident leaves both the Autobots and their companions in a dangerous predicament. The threat of Decepticon reinforcement looms on the horizon, leaving both victims and veterans scrambling for a solution in time. Rating changed.
1. Unknown Time, Unknown Date

(First foray into the world of TF fanfiction. This is set in the 2007 movie-universe, and was spawned by watching a few episodes of the classics. Co-written with Deviantart's IAmLazarus. This is simply an introductory chapter. The real meat of the story will come later. Also, please note that this plays off the idea that certain members of the "bad guys" survived—purely because no cannon describes them as being dead through the course of the movie. Good reading!)

* * *

1

Unknown Date, Unknown Time

Among law enforcement, there is a belief, that when the moon is full, the number of crimes increase. And while statistics occasionally prove this rumor one way or another, on this night, such was indeed the case, even for a sleepy corner of the California desert.

Normally, the area was uninhabited, save for the smattering of rodents and reptiles that called such a climate home. Years ago, it had been another story altogether, as one of the country's many winding highways had passed through the region, cutting like an asphalt scar over the ruddy landscape. However, with the addition of the LA freeway, such little highways as this had been completely abandoned, leaving the exoskeletons of once prosperous businesses to rust and decay along their dried-up lifeline. One of these, a gutted excuse for a gas station, slumped near an equally desiccated lakebed, its pumps and garage long since empty. Over time, a graveyard's peace had taken it over, especially on the occasion when the moon shone full above—casting bone-white light over the scene. The only thing clashing with the scene of utter desolation was the putrid green glow of a new soda machine, its light spilling like a beacon over the sand.

Unfortunately, tonight seemed to be the exception, as dust rose on the horizon, heralding the return of traffic to the otherwise dead station.

Gradually, a vehicle emerged from the dust. In the sun, the version two Hummer would have been a bright, blinding red, but the night dimmed the color to nearly black. Its passengers hung out of windows, shouting at nothing, waving half-full, dark bottles in the air. The car wove on the road, occasionally overcorrecting to wind up grille-first in the sagebrush. It would always right itself, heading on a more or less straight path—directly for the abandoned gas station and the dry lakebed beyond.

Upon reaching the swath of green light from the soda machine, the vehicle jerked to a halt, nearly slamming into one of the abandoned pumps. Two teens stumbled out, staring in bewilderment at the bottles in their hands. The driver remained behind, fiddling with a static-laden radio.

"Man," one of the teens slurred. His once crisp blue shirt was now stained with the booze, and sand stuck to the damp patches on his back. "Man, I… I'm so thirsty."

"Finish your beer," said his companion. "S'liquid. S'like… thirst… quencher. Yeah."

The first pointed in the general direction of the soda machine. "Dude, it's all gone and shit. Let's getta soda. Soda's what like… good?"

"Yeah that'll work."

"Yeah."

"Dude, shut the hell up…"

They started for the machine, still weaving on their feet. Occasionally, they would pause, as if forgetting their purpose. Upon reaching their destination, the teen in the blue shirt fished around in his pocket, frowning in concentration. The other paused, then announced, "I gotta bleed the lizard."

"Sick, man." There was a bleary smile on the first teen's face. "Dude. Yeah, sick."

"Shut up."

Without further ado, the second teen began the careful process, which, due to many courses of alcohol, had become much more difficult, of urinating on the gas station's wall. His inebriation, however, caused him to miss the building by a large margin, putting the poor soda machine on the receiving end. Oblivious to his struggle, the first boy had problems of his own, mostly involving the insertion of a twenty-dollar bill into the soda machine. When this failed, he gave it a few swift kicks, managing to slightly dent the fluorescent frontal casing. Sudden realization appeared to come over him, and in a moment of genius, he shoved both twenty and a newly acquired quarter into the machine.

The quarter shot out of its slot, hitting him square in the forehead before rolling off into the darkness. He swore colorfully while his friend snickered.

"Screw you."

Leaving his friend, the teen staggered away in the direction of the wayward coin. The shadows of moonlight stretched over the station, and even those in full possession of their faculties would have had difficulties in locating their quarter. The teen stood no chance, but he tried his best, the search eventually leading him well away from the light of the soda machine, and into the darkness lurking around the corner.

So intent was he on the ground, on finding his lost money, that he failed to notice the parked car until he careened into it, plastering himself across the front bumper. The cool smack of metal against his exposed skin briefly shocked him into the realization that he'd hit something tangible, something that, by all rights, should not be where he found it. The metal was too smooth, too new. Any cars out here should be rusted through, as neglected as the building they leaned against.

Blearily, he looked up, coming face-to-face with a uniformed officer, sitting still as stone in the cab of his cruiser.

"Shit!"

The teen scrambled backwards. Bad enough to cause a head-on collision with a cop, worse still to do so while intoxicated, what was left of his brain reasoned. Quick as he could, he slid off the car, trying to keep low to the ground as he backtracked to his friends. There was still a chance they could get away without an arrest. Maybe.

Something shifted, tripping him up. He fell, sprawling into a pile of what were once pristine tires. The crash brought the other teen running, laughing with adolescent glee at the mess. "You are so wasted, dude," he sniggered.

"There's a cop, man!"

Laughter died. "You're shitting me."

"No man! Right over there!" He gestured in the vague direction of the darkness. "Quiet! We gotta get back before he sees me." The teen neglected to mention his earlier meeting with the officer. "He sees us and then he's gonna find out we're all wasted and that's not our car!"

"Shut up! Let's go!"

Sand exploded.

The wave of particles temporarily blinded both boys, but they still managed to back up against the wall of the gas station, shouting obscenities at one another. Abruptly, one of the shouts dissolved into screams of agony. One of the boys turned to silence his friend, only to discover he had vanished. His friend screamed again, but the sound cut off in the middle, finishing in a strangled gurgle. The boy turned.

Blood, glistening and black against the sand, pooled in front of a monstrosity. The only word his alcohol-addled brain could attach to what he saw was "scorpion"—but somehow, the image of inch-long arachnids did not sync up to what was currently turning his drinking buddy into finely-chopped chunks of flesh. Blades as long as his arms ripped and tore, sending blood and bits of unidentifiable body parts flying. Pale moonlight gleamed sickly off of scarred metal, illuminating a wicked, weaving tail—broken tip still sharp and deadly.

The teen screamed. As if hearing him, it froze, dropping the mangled corpse of the other boy. Something vaguely head-shaped rolled towards him. Eight eyes—round and big as softballs—snapped up in the direction of the survivor. The claws darted forward.

Some primal instinct fought its way through the haze of the alcohol. The teen ducked, rolling sideways. He heard a loud _crack _behind him, as blades met aged concrete wall. Screaming, tears of panic streaming down his face, the teen staggered to his feet, and ran, ducking around the corner. Their car was too far away. The cop was closer. The cop would have a gun.

As before, he plowed into the hood of the car. Perhaps it was just the drink talking, but the officer still appeared to ignore the surroundings. The boy pounded on the hood, begging, pleading for a reaction—for help.

The car shifted.

Watching it, the teen could do nothing but scream. His voice only cut out when a massive, metal fist came down, turning him into nothing more than a blotch on the desert sand.

Straightening, the monstrosity stared down at the mess on its fist, then, almost delicately, knelt to wipe the remains on the sand. On the road, tires squealed, accompanied by the high-pitched whine of a human scream. Its expression altered only slightly, glowing red eyes following the progression of the human's vehicle, calculating a probable route of travel, destination and time of arrival. The horrible eyes turned towards the scorpion.

_"Follow it."_

Shuddering, the scorpion looked upwards, uttering a chattering sound. It waved its bloodstained weapons menacingly, blades gleaming.

In an instant, the larger form had it by the tail, clenching powerful hands. _"That was an order, Scorponok,"_ it said. The words took on an alien form, beeps and pulses combining with guttural growls. _"And you will follow it, or you will be destroyed."_

The larger form dropped the other to the ground, never taking its eyes away from the scorpion.

With a whine, Scorponok shuddered down into the sand—a small mound of moving earth the only sign of its passing.

_"Sir! Barricade! Sir!"_

The glowing light from the soda machine shifted, dimming briefly, then moving closer.

_"What is it?"_ Barricade growled down.

The small machine was next to worthless, having little more sentience to it than one of the computers on the planet. It would be a decent weapon in battle, but was of little consequence otherwise. Fortunately, it had learned to speak—something not even the late Frenzy had appeared to master. A pity about its passing, Barricade thought briefly. It had been, at least, of great skill in information gathering. The Spark-created machine had to be ordered to do everything—from transform, to shoot. It grated on Barricade's waning nerves.

And he had little to spare, lately. Without Starscream, Barricade had few options left open after the Decepticon defeat. In any form, Barricade lacked ability to fly, a point of great irritation to him now. Having been cut off from the main force after Prime's attack on Bonecrusher, he hadn't been entirely certain of the situation.

Until he'd tried contacting the others. Only the briefest of answers came through, accompanied by sneers of contempt—he was lost, he was missing their glorious defeat of the Autobots—until, one by one, the voices cut off. When he'd lost Starscream's signal to distance, Barricade realized he was on his own.

No matter. He'd had worse situations before. Training and experience taught him to make the best of it until reinforcements could arrive. There was the chance that Starscream would return, bringing more of their forces, but, again, experience said otherwise. It was up to Barricade to bring in reinforcements. And he was woefully unprepared.

He'd done his best to comb the remains of the battlefield for supplies—but, again, he was ill-equipped, as stealth had been Frenzy's job, not his. Humans swarmed everywhere, but, thankfully, the Autobots were absent from the rebuilding, leaving Barricade to pick over the spoils at his leisure.

Most of the machines created by the sudden flash of energy from the All-Spark had been destroyed, with the dratted soda machine only spared due to its inability to concentrate on where it was going at the same time it was shooting. Barricade had located it, much to his disgust, half-buried in a construction site. It was a pitiful way to rebuild their forces, relying on this creature, but losers could not afford to be picky.

Finding Scorponok still active had been a mixed blessing. With both Megatron and Blackout dead, there was no longer a Decepticon it would immediately obey. The only reason it had come to Barricade in the first place, he speculated, was that it was seeking an answer to its partner's sudden demise. Having crossed half a planet for its answers, he had assumed it would settle in to listening to his orders, but found time and time again that the smaller Decepticon had to be bullied into doing anything.

Not that Barricade had a problem with taking such measures. However, it did grate on his already thin patience.

_"Get back in your disguise…"_

He paused. Did the misbegotten thing even have a designation? No matter. It would serve its purpose soon enough. Grumbling, he shook his head. _"… Never mind. We're on the move again. If that meatbag makes it back to town this place will be infested in a matter of hours."_

It glanced in the direction of the desert, chattering in an imitation of Scorponok.

_"Scorponok will join us when it finishes its assignment,"_ the Decepticon growled. _"Ready the supplies and follow once it arrives."_

With a clank and grind of metal, Barricade shifted into the form of the police vehicle. The soda machine moved to follow his orders, hefting a myriad of objects into the trunk and interior of the transformed Barricade. Slamming its doors, Barricade peeled out into the barren night, stunted cacti the only witness to his departure.


	2. Wednesday, 3AM

2.

"_Wahoo!"_

The shout originated from a young teenager as he spun in circles in the middle of a dry lakebed. From his tires came a small tornado of dust--in the middle of which a yellow Camaro twirled, paint gleaming under the moon and starlight. His name was Sam Witwicky, and, in his opinion, he was currently the luckiest high school student alive. This opinion was formed due to the fact that he was, unlike most, able to crouch atop the roof of his car, while it spun in wide circles over the old lakebed. Most drivers would be flung from this precarious pose, had they been able to accomplish the feat itself. However, being seventeen, and therefore invincible, Sam was supremely confident in his position.

Of course, having a sentient vehicle was a tremendous factor in the equation.

Each time it appeared that the teen was near to slipping, the car performed a maneuver unseen by any save the most elite of stuntmen. It slid its rear wheels sideways, keeping its hood stable while still continuing spin in great circles in the dust. Judging from the number of tire tracks, the duo had been at their antics for quite some time. And, judging by the continued shouts of glee still emanating from the boy, many more would accumulate before they finished for the night.

However, the same factors that made the car such an advantage, also made for unforeseen problems. Such as when it decided to stop of its own accord. It did not so much slam on its brakes as it did slow to an acceptably safe speed. Only then did it brake hard enough for hydraulics to protest and rubber to grind hard against the ground. With a yelp, Sam went rolling down the side of the car, landing with a padded thud on the packed earth.

Silence fell over the lakebed. Even the car's engine shut off. The silence was quickly replaced with muttered curses as the teen stood up, attempting in vain to brush the dust from his clothes. He shot a glare in the direction of the driver's seat. "The hell was that for?" he grumbled.

The Camaro shook slightly, a voice emerging from somewhere within. "We have been here for several hours," said the car. "It is nearly three in the morning."

"So, what are you, my mother?" Sam massaged a bruising spine. "I mean, we're havin' a good time right now and you just go all responsible on me?"

"I have always been responsible for you," came the calm reply. "It is my duty." Obligingly, one of the bright yellow doors popped open. "And besides, the last time we were doing this, your cycles were so far off it was detrimental to your health."

Sam paused, one hand already on the open door. "My what?"

"Your cycles," the car repeated. "Sleeping. Waking. Those. You were 'running late' all day. And, I believe, you were detained after school for being just that."

"Oh come on!" Exasperated, the teen spread his hands in a defensive gesture. "Like that isn't like everyday of the week anyhow. At least I get something fun out of it. Five more minutes then I swear, we can go home and I'll never do it again."

The car's only response was to rev its engine warningly.

"You're killing me, Bee!"

"I am not." Now Bumblebee sounded indignant, as if Sam had just suggested his friend had done something unseemly. Somehow, he managed to sidle sideways on his wheels, bringing Sam closer to the open door. "Now come on. The longer you stall, the more trouble you get yourself into."

Sam merely turned, folding his arms. Though, what he thought he could do alone in the middle of the dry lakebed, even he wasn't sure. But damn it if he were going to let Bumblebee know about it. He simply knew he wasn't ready to return home just yet. That decided, he made an attempt to saunter off on his own—hands nonchalantly shoved in his pockets—only to be stopped by the familiar sound of shifting, warping metal. Turning back, his spirit sank as the robotic form rose to blot out the moon.

"Oh no. No no no!"

He gave a halfhearted attempt to run before a robotic hand gently plucked him up, depositing him over a yellow and black shoulder. There was nothing he could do except give in, even as they headed back up out of the lakebed. An electronic whistle emanated from his companion's voice box—the Autobot's rendition of Scorpions' "Rock You Like A Hurricane".

Glaring at the back of Bumblebee's head, Sam groaned. "Dude, you have no idea how inappropriate that song is right now."

Bumblebee's voice cut over the radio. "What?" He glanced back at his reluctant passenger. Metal brows twitched in confusion.

"For real, that song as applied to you and me, it doesn't work. Trust me."

When it became apparent Sam was not going to elaborate, the Autobot sighed, abruptly cutting off "Hurricane" and replacing it with "Iron Man". "Fine," he murmured. "I'll just ask Mikaela." Perhaps the girl would be more accommodating to a curious mind than Sam.

Shrugging as best he could in his current position, Sam said, "Hey, do whatever you want man."

"Fine, I will."

They didn't speak for a while. At least not until Sam's sternum grew numb from supporting his weight against Bumblebee's shoulder. He voiced this complaint to his companion, who, upon crouching down to drop him on a cluster of sagebrush, returned to his Camaro form.

"_Show me the way to go home,"_ sang Irving King from the radio. _"I'm tired and I want to go to bed." _

"When have you ever seen _Jaws_?" Sam quipped.

In response, the door popped open, nearly hitting him in the shins. He slid into the passenger side of the Camaro. It was late enough to where no one was really on the roads, and he could always clamber over to the driver's side should there be an unexpected increase in traffic. That was another benefit of a sentient vehicle. That and he could nod off on the way home without worrying about ending up in a ditch followed by a short ride to the emergency room.

It'd gotten quite used to such a luxury in the time following the battle in Mission City. Life in general had improved by leaps and bounds after that. Being guarded by a giant, living robot for instance—Mikaela for another. She'd taken a professional's interest in the repair of Bumblebee's legs, and, subsequently, had made a friend of the Autobot's medic. A fact which was part of the reason she was absent from their nighttime foray into the desert. The two of them were back at the ridge, the place the Autobots appeared to have claimed as their temporary base of operations, doing something involving an alien welding torch and someone's left canon.

Aside from the occasional scouting mission, the duo of yellow Autobot and teenage boy rarely separated. Even though there was no more use for Sam's inherited spectacles, it had been the warrior's wish to remain as his guardian. Granted, there had been a lot of explaining to be done as far as his parents were concerned, but the endless sessions of question and half-truth-answer was well worth the reward of going on the occasional recon mission.

Suddenly, the gentle hum of late-night radio screeched into silence as Bumblebee made a hard turn, accelerating in the opposite direction—headed back out into the desert. Peeling his face off the door, Sam sputtered an irate question; something along the lines of "what the hell was that".

"An odd signal," Bumblebee replied. "I need to check on it."

"Whatever happened to 'it's three AM and you're gonna be late for school'?"

Sam was promptly thrown back into his seat as the Camaro hit a speed no earthly vehicle should have been able to maintain over desert ground. He could almost hear the mischievous grin in the Autobot's voice. "I'll be quick then."

Rock and sagebrush flew past the windows in a blur of dark shapes on moonlit earth. Ahead of them, an abandoned gas station leered into view—black and forgotten near the base of a craggy hillside. It was that hillside Bumblebee appeared to be steering towards. They raced past the gas station, swerving on a dime to avoid what looked like patches of oil or water staining the ground. They were going too fast for Sam to get a good look.

"When you say 'odd signal'," he ventured. "Do you mean like… odd as in 'oh crap Decepticons' or odd as in 'hey there's a crazy dude up on the hill tuning in alien robot radio on his homemade satellite dish'?"

The silence from his friend was not at all reassuring. "I am not entirely sure," Bumblebee admitted. "But it would appear to be the 'oh crap Decepticons' odd. Either way, it needs to be checked on."

Sam's stomach did a small flip-flop that had nothing whatsoever to do with the speed record they were setting. "Shit—Oh hell. We're in trouble," he groaned. "I thought we took those things out!"

"At the risk of sounding clichéd… you thought wrong."

The thought of those hulking monstrosities bearing down on them yet again made Sam shudder. "You sure we should be doing this alone? I mean, what if it's another tank?" He waved his hands at the interior of the cab, indicating the relative size of the vehicle in comparison to said tank. "No offense man, but you can't take out a tank on your own."

"Can." The voice from the radio sounded smug. "Did."

"Mikaela's not driving and Lennox is having family time—"

This produced an irritated growl from the engine. "Are you implying that Mikaela is a better driver than I am?"

"No! What I'm trying to say is, we're on our own here."

Bumblebee slowed a fraction. "_We_?" he repeated. "_We_ are not doing anything. I am. You will stay out of sight and out of danger."

They had descended down into a sort of valley, lying between the hillside and the desert plain. Windmills dotted both hillside and valley like limbless trees. Long shadows stretched out across the ground, and the interior of the car passed in and out of darkness as it drove along. It was a decidedly spooky effect. Sam could imagine the howl of a lone—and therefore hungry—coyote accompanying the eerie shadows. Adolescent courage or no, there was no way he wanted to be left out here on his own. Not to mention the fact he certainly did not want to miss out on the action, should said action prove to be a crazed UFO fanatic and not robots bent on the eradication of his species.

On that note, he spoke up. "There's no way I'm letting you go in with out backup, Bee."

Gears shifted as Bumblebee began ascending up the hillside. He didn't say anything for a moment, as his attention was distracted by more important matters. The others needed to know about the signal, and its location, should it turn out that he did indeed need backup. It took only a moment to reach them, and before they were even halfway up the hill, he replied to his charge. "Sam, I don't detect any life readings around here besides us, there's nothing to be afraid of," he said, sounding amused.

"Afraid?" Now it was the teen's turn to sound indignant. "Who said I was afraid?"

"Then you stay here, and I'll be back for you."

Throwing himself back against the seat, Sam glowered at the dashboard. "Okay, so maybe I am afraid," he admitted, his tone suggesting he was doing Bumblebee a great favor by his admission. Though he doubted the Autobot would repeat any of it to his comrades—or worse, Mikaela—no teenage male liked admitting fear. "Listen, I'll hide once we get there. There's no way I'm going to sit out here and get eaten by coyotes."

The engine coughed, a sound oddly similar to a sigh. "There aren't any coyotes. I told you that."

"I'll hide in a corner, or even better, a vent. I'm thin as a rail, look, I'm like a refugee. It'll work." He gave the dashboard a confident pat. "Trust me."

Slowing to a stop, Bumblebee made the sighing sound again, easing one of his doors open. "Be careful then," he said as Sam climbed out. "And stay back, whatever you do."

"Yeah yeah, will do."

They had stopped in front of what appeared to be some sort of maintenance shed, although the distant hum of electricity gave it away. The long, bunker-like building before them was one of the generators for the field of windmills, converting the wind power to a more useful form. At one point, it had been surrounded by a sturdy, chain-link fence. However, a large hole had been torn through the barricade, and the twisted, warped, fence lay twisted on the ground. Tire tracks led across the gap without any sign of stopping—as if something had simply plowed into the fence, and kept on going. Further on, the structure itself had a similar hole torn in it. Whoever had broken in had not even bothered trying to open the front door.

That in mind, Sam decided it wise to let Bumblebee go first.

Still in the final stages of transformation, the yellow robot stepped in front of him, motioning him to stay back. Sam followed a health-preserving twenty feet or so behind. The weeks of practice kept him walking easily, even as his friend's footsteps shook the ground. Part of him was glad Bumblebee was going first—the other part hated the first for thinking such a thing. The memory of the Autobot crawling through the rubble on shattered limbs was fresh in his mind.

Bumblebee knelt near the wall, peering inside the dim structure. Tire treads continued into the building, then stopped shortly after entering. From there, familiar tracks continued forward, disappearing into the darkness. There was a soft _whirr_ as the yellow faceplate slid down over fragile optics. He moved slowly into the building, steps delicate. The more carefully you moved, the less noise you made. It was what he was trained for, after all—recon.

Behind him, Sam ran for the nearest vent. It was at this point that he realized there were none of said structures available at his height.

"What the hell kind of warehouse building doesn't have vents?" he asked the large form beside him. "That's like a fire code violation or something." Looking up, he caught sight of Bumblebee making a shushing motion, the faceplate making his expression all the more stern. Sam nodded quickly and tried to move as if he had found the promised hiding place.

There was no way he was going to get kicked back outside.

Bumblebee slipped around a generator, keeping his back pressed against the gently vibrating metal. It was the last bit of cover he could see for a while. Most structures in the building barely came up to his knee. Banks of computers and long tables were nothing when a Decepticon cut loose. And given the signs he'd seen outside, he had no doubt that was what they were dealing with now.

However, all Bumblebee could see beyond his secure position was darkness. If he turned on his IR feed, they might be able to detect the EMF leakage. He would have to chance it.

Instantly, the world shifted into shades of blue. He was able to make out several things lurking near the far end of the building. One of which was a cylindrical shape—most likely a generator, like the one he hid behind. Beside it was a rectangular form, sitting upright near a doorway. A deep hole in the concrete ground was beside the two. The only other thing he could make out was a gap in the wall—almost identical to the one they'd entered through. Not a good sign.

Near the entrance, Sam had, in all honesty, scoured the area for the promised vent to hide himself in. He'd had no such luck. Unlike his companion, he was unable to see in the dark, and found himself tripping over bits of rubble and equipment. Shouldn't there have been technicians running the station? Or a security guard at least? His wanderings took him deeper into the silent building. Passing up furniture, he at last hunkered down between what looked to be a concrete wall and a generator.

Only when he squinted into the dark did he make out the faint blue glow that marked Bumblebee's eyes.

_That's… closer than I thought he was._

Fortunately for him, the Autobot's attention was focused elsewhere. And, like any reasonable human being, Sam was curious as to what his companion had found.

He peered around the wall, trying in vain to make out more than vague shapes in the darkness. Nothing wanted to offer itself up to his observation until the growl of an engine cut the air. There was no other way to describe the sound—utterly different from the noises emitted by other, less homicidal, engines. The car that entered the building had no headlights; it didn't need such things. As if to dispel further doubt to its identity, the car twisted, and stood, red eyes gleaming in the darkness.

_Oh… fuck, _gibbered the always eloquent speech center of Sam's brain. Red eyes were bad. Very, very bad. At least it was too small to be the last red-eyed horror he'd faced down. Yet the shape of this one was familiar all the same. He ducked low, hoping Bumblebee would decide to retreat sooner rather than later.

Unlike Sam, Bumblebee had no trouble in identifying the newcomer. It was hard not to, when you had spent an evening grappling with it. He tensed, fighting the urge to fire on the Decepticon.

_Barricade…_ He should have realized the creature had survived. None of his fellows had reported its death. And he knew he hadn't killed it in their battle in the city. What it was doing, however, he had no idea. Barricade appeared to be speaking to the rectangular object, which, to Bumblebee's confusion, had begun its own transformation. Another Decepticon?

Having apparently finished its conversation, Barricade assumed its stolen form and began its departure. The new Decepticon followed, moving awkwardly on heavy limbs.

_Now!_

He slid out from his hiding place, canon emerging from his arm in a few quiet clicks. Originally, he intended to charge after them, taking care of the problem quickly and without many humans around to witness the battle. However, as he drew nearer to the generator the Decepticons had been clustered near, Bumblebee froze, stumbling back a half-step in surprise.

The signal was coming, not from Barricade and his new cohort, but from the generator itself. Glancing up to check on the Decepticon position, he searched the structure.

Wired into the very generator was another boxlike shape, this one not of human make. He knelt, looking it over. As far as an exterior scan could confirm, it was a simple Decepticon beacon, nothing more. But it should not have been putting out so strong a signal. The building was built by humans. Even the weakest of their signals would have no trouble getting through. There was no reason for it to require so much power.

He took a closer look, and recoiled. Internal scans revealed it to be not just a beacon…

_It's a bomb!_

Hows and whys could wait. Right now, all that mattered was getting the device shut down. There might not be enough time to get away. Even if they could, the subsequent blasts from the generators would be devastating—especially if the unfortunate maintenance crew came by at the wrong moment. He knelt, tugging at stubborn casing, only to realize doing so might set it off prematurely. There was nothing else around to use as a tool. And while he really did not want to bring Sam into this mess, it would appear he had no other choice. He was not Rachet—mechanical tools did not accompany him wherever he went. Maybe Sam's smaller hands stood a chance of dismembering circuitry.

Bumblebee turned, and scanned the interior of the building for any sign of life. It turned up, much closer than he'd expected. Although, that was not too surprising, knowing Sam.

"The Decepticons have gone," he called, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice. "Sam, come here."

The boy crept close, keeping low to the ground. "Bee," he murmured. "Which one was—

"Barricade," Bumblebee replied, cutting him off. "The 'crazy cop', as you called it." He gestured at the blinking device before them. "I need your help."

"You need _my_ help? What for?" There was a brief pause as Sam took in the box wired to the generator. He stared. It was the same setup one saw time and time again in video games and movies. He would be insane not to realize what he was looking at.

"Oh shit Bee, this is a bomb! Are you aware that this is a bomb? That there is a bomb right here, currently in the room with us? And, more importantly that _we're not running_!" Sam's voice screeched as it hit the end of its vocal range.

"Sam!" Bumblebee crouched, coming face-to-face with the boy. "I will protect you. But I need your help. Screeching will not help us at all."

Confronted with his friend's words, Sam could only summon a weak protest. "I do not screech," he muttered.

Large hands gingerly wrapped themselves around alien metal. "Watch the screen," said Bumblebee. "When I lift, make sure nothing flashes faster. That is a bad sign."

"No, really?"

Without comment, Bumblebee lifted the frame, slowly, cautiously. Despite his care, the panels began to flash. Sam yelped a warning, and the Autobot froze, then eased the device back into place. Obviously frustrated, he pointed at a few visible wires, wrapping in and out of both device and generator. "Pull the first of those out," he said. "But carefully."

His hands were almost shaking. Not quite. There was enough adrenaline in Sam's system to prevent that. If he messed this up, they were going "boom". Probably with a capital "B". But they wouldn't be doing this if Bumblebee didn't think they could—if that were the case, they would have been in the next state over by now. When the wire came free, he was able to let out the breath he'd been holding.

"Now the next one," said Bumblebee. Even he sounded tense.

It appeared to be going smoothly. At least until the second wire came free of the device. The flashing light on the panel started Sam into a yelp. He could hear his own heart slamming against his ribcage and his hands chose this particular moment to have spasms. Something deep within the generator groaned, setting the floor to shaking.

Panicked now, Sam grasped as many of the wires as he could fit in his fist. Bumblebee was telling him something, trying to pry him away, two fingers wrapped around his chest and tugging. That gentle motion was all it took. The wires tore free in Sam's hand, and power surged through flesh and metal.

He was sure he screamed, sure he could hear Bumblebee doing the same. He felt as if he were thrown from his body, and recalled, dimly, seeing himself still holding the wires, back arched from the shock. Someone was telling him to drop it. And somehow, he did.

Then blinding light erupted and he felt himself launched against something hard and unyielding. The light went black.


	3. Wednesday, 3:30 to 4:30 AM

Note: According to the book--yes, I read the movie novel, sue me--Lennox does indeed own a farm. And, yes, if you look close enough, one of Ironhide's eyes is pretty badly banged up. Sticking to cannon as much as possible here, folks.

* * *

3. 

Before the dust from the rubble had begun to settle, the roar of engines could be heard, distant, but audible from somewhere below the destroyed generator building. In no time at all, a trio of eclectic vehicles appeared, bearing down on the ruins. At the head of the procession, a huge semi rolled—bereft of trailer—red and blue flames streaking its massive sides. It was flanked by a black pickup truck, monstrously large in its own right. Rounding out the procession was a Search and Rescue vehicle, its lights flashing a warning to all those in their path. They were not the sort of things one expected to see at three AM in the middle of the desert.

The semi ground to a halt at the edge of the rubble, headlights sending twin beams of white across the scorched and blackened rubble. The front half of the building was still standing, albeit cracked and chipped. However, nothing in the back half was left standing. It had collapsed into unrecognizable bits of mortar. Even some of the windmills were affected, listing sideways on their foundations, great blades stilled and broken. A few of the larger piles denoted where the generators had been, and it was on these piles that the headlights lingered on.

Metal clanked and shifted, until three monoliths stood outside the plant, staring down. The tallest motioned one of the others forward, never moving his gaze from the rubble.

"Ironhide," said Optimus Prime. "Search the perimeter, make sure the area is secure." One giant hand moved to indicate the area. When the black Autobot stepped forward, canons at the ready and a glint in his eye, the tall Autobot's gesture turned into one of caution. "If you encounter any Decepticons, you will wait to engage."

"If I wait, sir, they'll leave," said Ironhide, the words emerging in almost a growl.

"I have every confidence they will not get far." A hint of a smile graced the leader's face. When the weapons specialist moved off on his task, Optimus turned to the transformed Search and Rescue vehicle. "Ratchet, does Bumblebee's signal show him inside?"

"Indeed," the medic replied. His tone was even, despite the worry that briefly flickered across his face.

"All right. Let's get started, then."

Almost delicately, the two picked their way through the rubble, mindful of what they were stepping on. Despite the wreckage, and Bumblebee's bomb warning, both knew the scout would not let his charge come to harm. If his signal was still coming from within, Sam would therefore be in the same general area—and, hopefully still functioning as well. It would not do for the boy to survive a blast, only to be crushed under well-meaning Autobot feet.

Larger pieces of wall and ceiling were lifted, and set aside. Metal muscles worked tirelessly, picking through pieces of building material that humans would have needed cranes and machinery to budge. Had anyone been watching, it would have been an overwhelming sight. They began at one end, and slowly worked their way back, each movement slow and meticulously planned, lest their work shift an unstable bit of rubble until it fell on top of their comrade.

Ironhide returned as they neared the end of the crumbled side. "Nothing to report," he growled. "The Decepticons are long gone. Even their tracks are faded."

"Don't sound so disappointed," Rachet snapped back. He tossed a small piece of ceiling towards the larger Autobot, who stepped aside to briefly note its passing. "Unlike you, I would prefer not to be dodging canon fire while I work."

In answer, Ironhide only grunted, and stepped in to help. Rachet stepped back, watching critically for any movement, or telltale yellow panels. Their leader had kept silent throughout the exchange—such was common between the two veterans—his attention focused entirely on his work.

Unsurprisingly, it was Optimus who found them. They had been thrown against the back wall, covered in collapsing rubble. Bumblebee lay on his back, hands cupped instinctually over his chest, forming a protective cage around his charge. Metal was dented and warped in places, but upon Rachet's inspection, the damage was superficial. Some of the tension drained out of the trio—they had seen the small Autobot injured far too often of late, and Jazz's death was fresh in all of their minds. It was something of a relief to see him, literally, in one piece.

"Where's the boy?" asked Ironhide, crouching to peer at the ground. "I sense a life sign, but…" he trailed off, squinting with one good eye.

Rachet shoved him aside, medical tools already in hand. Wisely, Optimus took a step back. There was nothing more he could do at this point, and hovering would only irritate the medic. With the utmost care, Rachet pried open Bumblebee's hands, revealing the limp form of Sam. Tension once again settled over the field. The boy's left hand was burned, dark lines of char snaking up the tattered sleeve of his sweatshirt. Other than that, however, he appeared to be unharmed. The medic confirmed this a moment later.

"They are both unconscious, but neither has sustained significant damage," he said, rising. "It would be best to bring them to a safe place for recovery."

Optimus nodded once, kneeling to lift the unconscious boy. The burns on his arm, though minor, would not be easy for Sam to explain away. Nor would it be possible to deposit him at a human medical center—that would require someone to transform, and given the bright lights surrounding those centers, whoever undertook the task would be spotted immediately. Bumblebee would also need transport and rest—and the ridge the Autobots occupied suddenly seemed too far away for Optimus' liking. There had to be another option.

"Ironhide," he said at last. "Approximately how far is the Captain's dwelling from this location?"

The black Autobot raised a brow. "Not far—a few miles. Why?"

Briefly, their leader outlined the plan. It was doubtful the Captain would appreciate such an intrusion, but it was unlikely he would turn another, wounded, soldier away. Without comment, they set it in motion. Rachet transformed first, engine idling as he waited. Sam was set in the back of the vehicle, as gently as Optimus could manage, as his hands were more dexterous than Ironhide's. The weapons specialist had a job of his own—crushing sheet metal into a more flexible shape. This accomplished, Optimus transformed, the great semi's headlights once more cutting swaths of white across the darkness. He maneuvered himself into position as Ironhide lifted Bumblebee onto the bed of the semi, draping the now-pliable sheet metal over his smaller comrade. It was not the best of disguises, but given the hour, it was passable enough for a few miles ride.

He led the way, Optimus and Rachet falling into place behind him. Despite the circumstances, the old warrior felt a faint amusement. Their arrival was going to be interesting.

* * *

"What the hell guys?"

William Lennox had just convinced an infant that the small hours of the morning were not, in fact, a good time for playing with daddy, but were a good time for sleep. He had been looking forward to celebrating his success by crawling into bed beside his wife, and catching a few hours' sleep. Unfortunately for him, he had made it as far as his bedroom door before a familiar shape blotted out the moonlight from the window. With one last, wistful look at both wife and mattress, Lennox had stalked out to the front lawn, wishing he would wake up and find it all an extremely irritating dream.

The Autobots, however, had other ideas. So, he stood there, waiting, as cool night air washed over his chest and limbs. When your baby awoke in the night, clothes came second to the immediate problem of quieting the noise. Consequently, Lennox found himself staring up at Ironhide wearing nothing but a pair of rather oddly patterned boxer shorts. Sarah had sent them over to Qatar for him—saying the girl blowing a kiss from his left thigh bore a striking resemblance to her.

Ironhide made no comment—about either Lennox's language, or his state of undress—merely gestured towards the two other idling vehicles. "We require your assistance," was all he growled out.

As intimidating as the weapon specialist was, Lennox didn't blink, even when the canon-laden hand waved over his head. He was a tired man with a new baby, and was in no mood to dole out favors to aliens—even these particular aliens. "You know," he began. "If this could wait till morning, that would be fantastic." He ran a hand through close-cropped hair, stifling a yawn. "I'm not sure if you guys have quite grasped the concept of sleep but…"

He trailed off as Optimus Prime carefully transformed, leaving the covered burden on the ground. One huge hand pulled back the flimsy metal, revealing the too-still yellow form beneath. Cautiously, Lennox approached, just enough to make out the dents in the smaller Autobot's metal hide. Nowhere near as bad as the 'bot had been after Mission City, the Captain reflected. But the others were worried all the same.

"We were unsure where else to take them," said Ironhide, massive shoulders moving in an approximation of a shrug.

Dread wrapped itself around Lennox's chest. "Them?" he murmured. He hoped he was wrong. But, from what he'd seen, where Bumblebee went, a certain gawky teenager tended to follow.

To his left, the Search and Rescue vehicle popped its rear door open. The boy was sprawled on the floor of the bare ambulance bay, as still as the other Autobot. Lennox nearly groaned, and had to restrain himself from running inside to dial 9-1-1. They had a medic, they must have deemed Sam's condition well enough not to warrant emergency treatment.

"What happened?" he asked. He was already committed. There was no way he could turn the kid and his car away now. Might as well get the story while the big guys were in a talkative mood.

"A Decepticon bomb, from what his last transmission revealed," the Autobot leader said. "We have yet to take a preliminary scan of the wreckage at the site. Until then, we will not know for sure."

"All right, fine," he conceded. "Give me the kid, you guys can set up in the barn." One hand waved in the vague direction of the old structure. He would figure out what to do about Sam's parents and destroyed shirt in the morning. It was too early to make any phone calls now.

He stepped up to the ambulance bay's open doors and, with a care and ease stemming from practice, picked up the unresponsive body. Sam was smaller, lighter, by far than the others in his unit. Of course, he wasn't carrying fifty pounds of combat and survival gear. There was a pull-out couch in the living room he could use. Sarah would understand—she was a remarkably resilient woman, given an alien war veteran had taken up visiting them on his off-days.

As he stepped back, Rachet resumed his bipedal form, and began supervising the move of Bumblebee with a doctor's usual terseness. Occasionally, Lennox caught snatches of him going as far as to snap at his commander. Heading back into the house, the captain shook his head. Some things were so frighteningly universal.

The living room was dark, so it took him a moment to locate a safe place to set the kid down. He settled for an overstuffed armchair, propping Sam up while he pulled and swore at the couch. Each move had to be planned with care, lest he make a too-loud sound. Sarah may forgive uninvited teenagers, but should he get the baby, and consequently his wife, up because he stubbed his toe against the coffee table, there would be hell to pay. Couch successfully set up, he arranged the kid against a throw pillow and afghan. He looked peaceful enough.

Next came the burned hand. They kept a first-aid kit under the sink—at least, they had in years past. He hoped it was still there.

Luckily for him, and his freezing knees—the kitchen tiles were cold, damn it!—it was precisely where he remembered it. Bringing it back to the couch, he set about bandaging the injury. He risked turning on a lamp to inspect it better, bathing the room in soft, amber light. There wasn't any blood or other fluid that would have marked a serious burn injury. The skin of Sam's palm was an angry red color, slightly inflamed, but other than that, Lennox could see no sign of danger.

"Lucky kid," he muttered, gingerly bandaging the hand. "The hell did you guys get up to out there?" He shook his head. "And I thought I was a rebel. Least I didn't get myself blown up with a live Camaro."

Tucking the boy's arm back under the blanket, Lennox stood, intending to head back up to bed. He switched the light off, and got a foot on the stairs, only to be stopped by a loud, gear-stripping whine from outside. He didn't bother to smother his curse before he dashed back outside—remembering to grab a jacket at least this time.

The Autobots were clustered, unsurprisingly, about the barn. Ironhide was attempting to work the door, without crushing it into splinters, grumbling to himself. The other two stood by, Optimus carrying their unconscious comrade. They looked up as he approached, but it took a few more shouts to raise Ironhide's attention.

"Would you keep it down out here?" Lennox hissed. "You're louder than the raccoons." He moved to open the door, ducking under huge mechanical limbs.

"Raccoons?" He could hear the curiosity and confusion in Rachet's voice.

"Vermin," Ironhide rumbled. The word was accompanied by the whirr of canons emerging. "They were taken care of."

"And I told you," said the captain. "Your canons were louder than the damn trash cans. Plus, you gave Annabelle nightmares." Working the latch, Lennox eased the barn door open, stepping aside as Optimus ducked in. The massive Autobot had to kneel to accomplish his goal, and even then his head scraped the unused hayloft.

Bumblebee was lain, gently, on the floor of the barn, yellow body dulled by the sudden kick-up of dust. It was suddenly crowded as Rachet entered and bent over his patient, apparently checking for some sort of life sign. He nodded once to Optimus, but said nothing.

If they were speaking, they chose not to include the captain. Feeling decidedly snubbed, he backed out onto the grass until his back pressed up against metal. He looked up, meeting one clear optic. "Optimus and I will guard your property for the night," said Ironhide. "And Rachet will take care of things inside." Eye ridges drew down, blue light dimming. "You should return to your… wife."

"Just don't shoot any wildlife." Lennox fought off a yawn, already heading back toward the house. He heard the Autobot huff something unintelligible before the grind of metal on metal filled the air. It was such a natural sound to hear on the farm by now that he didn't need to turn to check on the sight behind him. He could picture it now—one huge semi and one oversized black pickup sitting like sentinels before his barn.

Stepping back inside, his foot brushed something small and metallic. He glanced down. A small black cell phone lay just inside the doorway. Curious, he picked it up, and flipped it open. A picture of two teens perched on the hood of a yellow Camaro confronted him, filling the screen.

He set Sam's phone on the kitchen counter on his way back up to bed. At least now he didn't need to dig through a phone book to make those calls tomorrow.

_Glad to be back…_ he thought, sliding in next to Sarah. He'd just draped an arm around her and closed his eyes when a high-pitched wail filled the air.

_God damn it, guys… You're getting it in the morning. I swear._


	4. Thursday, 6 to 7 AM

4.

He was aware of something hard beneath him. For a long while, that was all he wanted to think about. If he tried to think too hard about where he was or why he felt so stiff, his mind would skitter away from the thought and drag him back down into dreamland. That, and the headache resurfaced, driving spikes into the back of his skull. As a result, he stopped thinking for a time.

The second thought to come to him, despite the pain, was that he was lying on his back, and that the sun was filtering into his eyes. Therefore, it was either far too early, or much too late for him to be waking up. Dimly, part of him wondered why his alarm clock had not gone off, and why he could not hear Mojo's incessant barking. The usual sounds of a suburban street were absent as well, save for the staccato chirping of overly enthusiastic birds.

With a groan, Sam turned his head, trying to burrow into the pillow and escape the sunlight. He was rather surprised to find said down-filled object absent. That was strange. Maybe he had thrown it on the floor during the night.

The thought of "last night" brought up some interesting questions. He wasn't entirely sure what had happened. Vague memories of Bumblebee and a dry lakebed surfaced, but that didn't tell him anything. They'd gone out joyriding so often, that the memories began to bleed together after a while. But, usually, there was something that set the various instances apart. There was the time with the tortoise… with the sinkhole… with the rabbit that very well could have been a jack-a-lope… with the bomb…

_Shit, wait a second!_

He opened his eyes, and found himself staring up at a plain, wood-plank ceiling. It was closer than he would have expected—but, then again, he was expecting to see the rather risqué poster of a car and model pinned to his ceiling. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the boards, coloring the place with warm light. Momentarily thrown, Sam lay still, blinking and staring. Something nearby was humming softly, clicking and whirring like a camera. Where was he?

Slowly, he tried to sit up. From his prone position, it was impossible to get the layout of the room. However, this attempt was stopped by a heavy, unseen hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down. He blinked, then frowned as the sound of a camera came again.

"Stay where you are," said a familiar, and unexpected voice. "You have been offline for more hours than usual. I would prefer you did not try any unnecessary motions until I can complete this morning's scan."

Sam turned his head, looking up to come face to face with Ratchet. The medic was typing something into a panel on his arm, while keeping Sam lying where he was. It was a completely mundane sight, except for the rough boards of a wall behind Ratchet, and the fact that something about his size seemed off.

"Dude," said the teen. "Why are you smaller?" His voice sounded odd—scratchy, far away; as if he were hearing it over a PA system.

Ratchet favored him with an exasperated look. "I am the same size I have always been," he informed Sam. "And when did your vocabulary deteriorate to this level?" He paused, frowning. "If that explosion was the cause of it, I will personally remove Barricade's head. I don't have the resources here to recalibrate your cranial processor…" The medic trailed off, grumbling to himself.

"So there was a bomb…" Sam muttered. The humming was back, adding strength to the headache. "Guess I didn't dream it up."

This caught Ratchet's attention. "You do not remember?" he asked. When Sam shook his head, the Autobot sighed, putting on a weary air. "Optimus left as soon as it was daylight, in order to assess the situation properly. As far as we can tell, the Decepticons placed a signal in that location to lure any nearby Autobots. And I assume you are capable of figuring out what the bomb's purpose was." His typing hand gestured at their surroundings. "After which, you were brought to the dwelling of Captain Lennox, as it was the closest location in which you could recover."

That explained the weird walls and ceiling, at least. Sam relaxed a bit, until in unwanted image of a yellow body, twisted and shattered among wreckage, slipped into his head. His eyes popped open again. "Shit! Ratchet!" he all but shouted. "Bumblebee! Is he okay? Where is he?"

There was a lengthy pause as the medic stared at him, silent. The look on his face could only be called confusion. "I already informed you," Ratchet said slowly, brows furrowing. "You are on the property belonging to Captain Lennox. The human male Ironhide is fond of visiting."

"No, I know, you just said that. But where's Bee?"

Sam sat up, intending to head out to search for his friend himself. However, this was impeded when his head cracked sharply against a low-hanging winch, suspended a few feet away from the ceiling.

_That… is _so_ not supposed to happen._

The world flickered in and out of focus, as if his eyes were trying to tune into the right TV station. Sam brought his hands up to his face, trying to check for the lump he suspected was already growing. He brought his hands up and stared.

_Oh… oh this is so… this is not good. This is some kind of dream. Some really… _really_ screwed-up dream._

* * *

"_Purple haze all in my brain  
Lately things just don't seem the same  
Actin' funny, but I don't know why  
'scuse me while I kiss the sky…"_

There was something wrong with Bumblebee's radio, he decided as consciousness slowly began to return. It seemed to have one song on repeat, and the station refused to come in clearly. And while he had no problem with classic rock, there was something to be said for variety. As if that wasn't enough, there was an odd _thump_ sound in the background, repeating itself regularly every second or so.

His hand hurt. Odd that he could not remember why. Odder still that he could not remember the events preceding his slow awakening. He deduced he was lying, facedown, on something soft and yielding. There was warmth beside him—perhaps the sun on the ground. That was, of course, providing that the sun had indeed risen, and he had not awoken prematurely in the night.

Something brushed the back of his head—the contact hesitant, gentle. Again, an oddity. His lack of memory, combined with the strange new sensations, informed him that something was off. As he was awake, it was probably past time to discern what exactly the problem was, and take care of it.

Gingerly, for his head had begun to ring, Bumblebee pushed himself up onto his elbows, blinking. He was mildly surprised at the silence around him—no click of optics, no faint hiss of joints and motors. He was more surprised, however, by the sight that greeted him. As far as he could tell, he was inside of a human home. Confusion settled in, and he looked around, trying to ascertain exactly where this oversized home could be. The _thump_ sound was still there, which only confused him further.

"You're awake…"

The voice, familiar though it was, made him jump. Someone put their hand on his shoulder with that same hesitant touch. Bumblebee turned slowly, coming face-to-face with someone completely unexpected.

"Mikaela?" His voice was unexpectedly loud, unexpectedly clear. It rang in his head in a most disconcerting way. "You have…"

_Gotten taller_, he'd wanted to say. For the teen could now, while sitting, look him in the eye. She was perched beside him on the couch, expression wearier than usual. Her hair was tied back, swept up and away from red, tired eyes. Despite her obvious poor condition, there was a warm smile on her face.

"The captain called me over here hours ago," she told him. "Said you got into something real nasty last night." She gestured over to an armchair, laden with articles of clothing. "I picked those up for you on my way over. Told your parents you'd slept at my place." Now her expression changed, from relief to something along the lines of amusement. "Your mom was pretty happy…"

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Mikaela was still speaking, telling him about how he'd been out joyriding—without her, she might add—and, according to Captain Lennox, had run afoul of some rogue Decepticons, of all things. From her tone, she was irritated at her exclusion from the events, as well as relieved that he was all right. However, that was natural enough. She had been there to witness his injury in battle. Logically, she would be worried about his health…

"Ratchet has Bee out in the barn," she said. "He was out same as you…"

_But… I _am_… Bumblebee…_

Bumblebee didn't hear her next words. He felt himself reel backwards, catching himself on his hands. One of them sent pain shooting up his arm, and, out of reflex, he grabbed it, wincing. Further confounded, he peered down at the offending limb, only to surge to his feet seconds later. He could not make a sound, although he very much wanted to scream.

His hands were not his own. Instead of powerful, metal digits, they were those of a human.

The _thump_ sound increased in pace, accompanied by a roaring in what he could only assume were his ears. Air rushed in and out of his chest—faster than he had observed in humans. Dimly, over the roar in his ears, he could hear Mikaela shouting at him. "Sam!" she was shouting, rising, heading towards him with concern etched deeply across her face. "Sam, calm down! What's wrong!"

Bumblebee just shook his head wildly, staring at her in a panic. "No," he whispered. "No, I am not…" He couldn't finish.

What had happened? Had he lost his faculties completely? He was not human—he was not… _Sam!_ Where was the boy?

Barefoot, taking strides that felt far too small, he bolted for the door. He fumbled with the handle. His hands—no, not his hands, Sam's hands were shaking too violently for fine motor skills. He all but tore the door free of its hinges before sprinting out onto the damp grass. Behind him, Mikaela was yelling for the captain, her footsteps indicating she was giving chase as she shouted.

"Sam!" he yelled, his voice now sounding inadequate to reach the sagging structure of the barn ahead. It was an odd guess, but all he had. Logically, it did fit—if he were being somehow confused for the boy… then… "_Sam_!"

The barn doors all but flew open. For a moment, the _thump_ stopped altogether, as something within Bumblebee's chest froze.

It was not Sam, but an Autobot that emerged from the opening, colored blinding yellow, staring down with frightened, bright blue optics. Bumblebee looked up, craning his neck backwards, as he stared himself in the eye. He could not look away. Not even when his vision tunneled, and he fell to his knees, back into the uncaring bliss of unconsciousness.

* * *

_Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit , shit. _

Sam watched himself collapse onto the ground. It was an odd sensation, seeing your body move while you had absolutely no control over it—like watching a movie. Then again, most of the current predicament could be likened to one of the bad movies on the SciFi channel late at night. He reached a mechanical hand down to help, maybe to pick himself up, but was unsure exactly how to help the suddenly delicate form in front of him. Sam had never pictured himself as particularly frail before, but now, trying to sit his body upright in his current form, he felt as if he were attempting to put a splint on a bird's leg. One wrong move and, _crunch!_ no more limb.

It was in the midst of these rather gruesome musings, that he heard the most beautiful sound—off to his right, and getting closer.

"Sam!" He turned to see Mikaela running toward him, uphill from the house. Her attention seemed focused on the form in front of him. Which was, given what had just happened, not at all odd.

"Mikaela!" Sam gasped, crouching to peer down at her. "Oh my god, am I glad to see you. Listen, I'm not really sure what's going on here, I mean one minute I'm out in the dessert about to become robo-chow, the next I wake up and I'm like 15 feet tall!" He waved his hands for emphasis, almost knocking into the growling pickup to his left. Mikaela even had to duck as his new, larger, hands swept over her head. Sam continued, undaunted. "And I am _me_, but see, I'm not me and everybody's callin' me Bumblebee!" A pause, as the teen considered his next words. "But this sort of thing can't happen, so this has all got to be some sort of dream right, or I'm goin' crazy or…"

Mikaela had reached the fallen body of Sam, and, kneeling in the damp grass, had begun to try to get him up. However, her efforts paused as her attention was drawn to the jabbering robot. The concerned expression on her face quickly turned to one of shocked realization. Only one person in the world could have a run-on sentence that long. But somehow, that one person was currently not the young man she knew—he was not even human. Mikaela took a deep breath, reflexively tightening her grip on the boy in her arms, fighting the urge to faint alongside him. When she found her voice, it was soft, barely audible.

"…Sam?"

A noise from near the ground brought their attention to the downed teenager. Slowly, with her help, he managed to sit up. Behind them, the house's door banged open as Lennox emerged, this time dressed, albeit with the lower half of his face covered in shaving cream. A baby monitor dangled off a pocket. He took one look at the scene, then broke into a ground-eating jog, headed their way. There was the sound of heavy footsteps as Ratchet appeared outside the barn doors. Ironhide's transformation completed the bemused and concerned party.

"Bumblebee has apparently broken his mental processors, Ratchet," muttered the weapons expert. "Permission to preform a humane termination?"

Both the doctor and Sam were taken aback by the hostile reaction. Mikaela used this quite moment to get a word in, as Ratchet leveled a glare in his comrade's direction. Ironhide only shrugged with a sound like grinding metal.

"Does someone mind telling me what the hell is going on here?" she asked, trying to keep her voice even, as she helped Not-Sam to his feet.

Surprisingly, he was the one who spoke up. "It would appear that we are no longer ourselves," he murmured. Once again, the human body looked up to meet the Autobot's gaze.

"Pardon me, Bumblebee would you mind explaining what is going on?" Ratchet put a hand on Sam's now extremely large shoulder. The touch was real enough, but it felt distant, removed.

"That's just it Doc," Sam said, turning to face Ratchet. He jabbed a finger at his chest. "I'm not Bumblebee. I'm Sam." Now the finger pointed at the boy. "That's Bee. Not Sam. Bumblebee." Below, the human nodded assent.

"What the hell is going on now?"

Lennox had arrived, glowering, with shaving cream flecking his shirt. Arms folded, the captain fixed each and every member of the group with a look that informed them this interruption had better be an important one, or else there would be a very quick, very painful retribution.

"Something… really weird is going on," Mikaela replied, still staring up at Sam.

"Weird, it's always weird," he retorted. "What the hell could have happened that could be classified as weird now?"

Sam waved awkwardly at Lennox, attempting to look as sheepish as his new form would allow. "Hey um… Captain… uh, sir," he said. "Funny thing happened last night…"

"An unfortunate side effect of our encounter with the surviving Decepticons," chimed in Bumblebee. The words sounded stiff and formal, coming from a teenager's mouth.

Lennox was silent for a moment, just staring at the two speakers. "Perfect," he growled. Then, he spun on his heel, stalking back down the hill, headed for the house. "I'll be back in five minutes. Don't wait for me."

"Where are you…" Sam began, only to be cut off by the Captain's abrupt departure. "Going…"

"To finish shaving, damn it!"

A heavy silence followed the captain's departure. No one was entirely sure of what to say, or what to do. Things seemed so bizarre, so unbelievable, that for the moment, silence seemed the only logical option. Mikaela couldn't help staring up at Sam, as if trying to comprehend how her gawky boyfriend could suddenly morph into the robot that had once saved their lives. However, he didn't look much like said robot at the moment. He listed a bit, from side to side, unaccustomed to his new body. The same could be said of the boy beside her—who was gingerly prodding the flesh of his arms, brow furrowed in confusion. The girl stifled a groan, fighting the urge to follow Lennox, and curl up on the sofa bed. Maybe if she went back to sleep, this dream—this improbable nightmare—would fade away.

The roar of an impossibly large engine cut into her thoughts. All heads turned to see the massive semi cresting the long driveway, sunlight glinting painfully off of red and blue paint. The group kept silent as it drew to a halt before them, then proceeded to transform, until the regal form of Optimus Prime blotted out the sun. Sam, despite the additional height, still had to crane his head up to look the Autobot leader in the eye. He imagined Bumblebee was having a far worse time. A twisted mass of wire and metal was clutched in one of Optimus' hands, and dust caked his limbs. His gaze noted each one in turn, before the great voice spoke.

"Bumblebee," he said. "I am glad to see you on your feet again."

Sam could not help noting, with a distinct, sinking feeling, that those bright eyes were focused directly on him. Before he could speak up, someone near his feet answered.

"Yes sir," said the Autobot made flesh. "Thank you."

It was the first time Sam had ever seen Optimus look completely confused. Not even the accidental wreckage of his mother's roses had caused such an expression to grace the monolith's facial features. "Er," he began—not the most eloquent of words, coming from him, a fact which did not go unnoticed by the two Autobots behind Sam. Ratchet did manage to turn his amusement into something like a cough, however. "Yes… Sam," Optimus continued, studiously ignoring his warriors. "I am pleased to see you have recovered as well…" He sounded as bewildered as he looked.

Instead of silence, a chorus of voices started up as Optimus trailed off. Everyone spoke at once, adding their own opinions and theories on the matter. The Autobot leader held up his hands, trying to silence them, but the gravity and absurdity of the situation outweighed even his command. Growling under his breath, Optimus shot his weapons specialist a look, and soon after, the party fell silent as canon rapport echoed over the small farm. Looking smug, Ironhide ceased threatening the clouds, then folded his arms to wait.

"What," Optimus growled. "Happened. Here?"

"That is what we are attempting to assess, sir," Ratchet responded. He sidestepped the humans, separating himself from the group. "It would appear that… beyond logic…" The medic stumbled over the words, trying to figure out exactly how to best present the current predicament.

"Sam's an Autobot and Bee's a human."

All heads dropped down to the area around Sam's metal feet. Mikaela stared up, her face a resigned mask. "What?" Optimus intoned. Part of him wondered if perhaps the trauma of the past battle had caught up with the girl, and she had consequently lost her senses.

One slim, feminine hand pointed up at the transformed Camaro. "Sam," she informed him. Now, the hand dropped down to gesture at the boy standing awkwardly beside her. "Bumblebee." The dark-haired head shook slightly. "I dunno how, but that's what's what. Besides…" She regarded Optimus with a raised eyebrow. "Does 'yes sir, thank you' sound even remotely like Sam Witwicky?"

"Yes… This is true…" he responded. Yet, the skepticism was still plain on his face.

"Hey!" Sam leaned forward, glaring at her. "I could say that if… y'know. I tried!" The last was accompanied by one of Sam's usual hand gestures. This time, Mikaela and Bumblebee barely ducked in time, scrambling backward as the metal digits nearly knocked them off their feet. "Oh crap! Sorry! I'm sorry." To prove this point, Sam backed up himself—straight into Ironhide's legs.

"Bumblebee!" Optimus snapped. It had already been a very long morning, and the yellow spy was not making it any easier. Decepticons on the prowl… and now a dependable warrior had become convinced he was a human teenager? What else could possibly go wrong? "Stand and report!"

Again, the boy spoke. "Yes sir!" Spoke, and delivered a flawless salute—like nothing Optimus had seen from Sam Witwicky. As the boy continued, dread began to grow in the Autobot leader's chest. "I offer my apologies, though it would appear that Sam, not I, is having difficulty adapting to his new size…"

The words were most definitely not those of a human teenage male.

"Yeah," added the yellow Autobot. "Yeah, what Bee said. Because I'm supposed to be like... five eleven. And now I'm... what? Fifteen eleven!"

And those were not the words of a veteran Autobot warrior.

Optimus Prime pressed a hand to his face, resting fingers across his temples. There was little else he could do, really. "Ratchet, Mikaela?" he muttered, words half-muffled by the massive hand in the way. "Report… And it had better be good."

* * *

A good mood was rare for Barricade, especially while abandoned on a primitive, backwater rock such as Earth. It was rarer still for the Decepticon to have a moment where he was not pestered with the inane chatter of either the Mistake or Scorponok. Frenzy had been equally annoying—but at least its ranting had been related to the task at hand, not mindless complaints or manic muttering.

The others had nothing better to speak of than gibberish. Barricade was not programmed to speak with Scorponok directly, not as Blackout and Megatron had been. Thus, their communication was limited between "yes or no" questions, direct orders, and physical coercion. Even less could be said of the Mistake. More and more, Barricade found he was forced to repeat himself before the misbegotten thing would respond. Sometimes, he didn't even bother with that, preferring to ignore it completely in order to save on patience.

Now, however, everything was quiet, and Barricade was, to be honest, enjoying the moment. The Decepticons were camped on a ridge, a number of miles from the site of the explosion.

Ah, the explosion. Barricade had felt the ground shake from the concussion blast, even at their distance. It must have been truly spectacular. He could only hope the number of Autobots destroyed in the blast had been equally impressive. With the false signal to pull them in, and there was no way _they_ would have ignored it, it was ridiculously simple to eradicate whichever one of their forces came too close. Part of him fairly vibrated in anticipation of Scorponok's return. He had sent the smaller Decepticon out on recon, as burying one's self in the sand was far less conspicuous than his alternate form.

The rocky terrain prevented burrowing, just as the bright sunlight overhead made keeping to the shadows impossible. Therefore, Barricade was well aware of the other's arrival. He rose from his reclined position against a boulder, stepping over the Mistake in the process. It was too involved in slamming its ill-proportioned head against the dusty ground to notice.

Scorponok was already chattering as it approached, waving its claws and stubbed tail. It stopped a few feet away from Barricade, waiting.

"How many?" the larger Decepticon growled, keeping the anticipation neatly out of his voice.

The arachnid-shaped robot did not move. Its eyes flicked up once towards Barricade, then darted from side to side in a minute gesture of failure. With a roar of fury, the transformer police car flung Scorponok across the camp, noting without satisfaction the dull crack of metal on stone. The Mistake looked up briefly, confused, but quickly returned to its madness.

One huge metal fist slammed into a boulder, cracking it down the middle. This was not how things were to happen! The Autobots were supposed to be dead! Or, at the very least, incapacitated!

With their inevitable interference, there was no logical way for Barricade to complete his goals. Glowing red optics glanced in the direction of a heap of carefully crafted metal and wires. One long, slender pole graced the top, ending in what appeared to be a salvaged satellite dish. It looked, as near as it could on secondhand parts and quick soldering, like a distress beacon.

Snarling, he landed another solid hit on the boulder, breaking off a piece that rolled down the ridge, creating a small landslide as it fell. Barricade was far too incensed to notice. His plan was worthless! And, to make matters worse, the idiotic Autobots would be on alert for any more odd happenings—doubly on alert for Decepticon signals. There was no way to plant the beacon without attracting their attention. He was going to be stuck on this chunk of rock with two insubordinate morons for the rest of his miserable existence.

Something snapped, startling Barricade out of the red haze of rage.

Despite its failure, part of the bomb had worked entirely as planned. Its fake signal had attracted at least one Autobot with record time. It would not have gone off had that part of its design failed. Perhaps then… should he improve upon the original design, add a great deal more power… perhaps then it would be enough to fully disguise the real beacon.

But humans lacked the ability to generate such power. How was he to generate enough power to blow _Optimus Prime_ to scrap metal? To break through Prime's armor alone would take one of Megatron's canons, at full charge. Obliterating the sentimental fool would take something even greater…

Red optics fell to green casing, now lying still and staring up at the sky without a care for shorting its optics out.

… Something like the spark of a living being.

Rage cooled for the moment, Barricade backed up from the boulder, and, selecting a number of assorted bits, bent to his work. Had his face possessed the ability, a sick grin would have been plastered across the wicked, metal visage.

* * *

A/N: Yes, I am aware that this concept was used in the TV show. However, my co-author and I did not really feel that all the issues of such a switch were adequately addressed. So, wrote our own. Rest assured, there will be much more trauma and confusion and answers coming up.

Also, _Purple Rain _is property of Jimmie Hendrix.


	5. Thursday, 7AM to 2PM

5.

"What have you found out?"

"Both of them are fine, physically speaking. And though Bumble—Sam seems to have difficulty in recalling his current stature, I can find nothing wrong."

"You mean aside from the fact that they're pulling a body-swapping trick not seen outside the SciFi channel?"

The three giants looked down as one, as if they had forgotten Lennox's existence. The captain leaned casually against the wall of the barn, his gaze drawn down the little hill, towards the house. Optimus made a sound like a sigh, and moved to answer, but Ratchet spoke up.

"I will know more once I investigate the remains you found, Optimus," said the medic. "However, this will take time…" He let the sentence hang.

The leader nodded. "In the meantime, we will continue our search for Barricade and the other that Bumblebee spotted," Optimus said. "We can only assume that they are aware of their plan's failure. They will be looking for another opportunity to strike."

Ironhide nodded, unconsciously flexing his arms. "And, should they do so, it will be at our weakest point," he said.

Now Lennox looked up, raising a brow. "You mean them." It wasn't a question. He gestured down the hill, where the teens and changed Autobot sat on the grass, in a conversation every bit as important as the meeting of the elders.

As one, the three giants nodded. "It goes without saying that nothing should then appear amiss," said Optimus. "If Barricade were given any suspicion that Bumblebee was not himself…" Air hissed somewhere in the Autobot leader's massive chest—a regretful, pensive sound. "Then I fear we would lose both of them."

There was a thoughtful pause as all eyes turned to Sam. The boy was standing, as best he could, in his new body. Every so often he would gesture wildly, and then proceed to fling his arms about himself, trying to regain his suddenly-lost balance. The frantic motions were at definite odds with the easy, quiet stances of the monoliths surrounding Lennox. Even at their distance, they could easily hear him speak, his words the usual teenage cornucopia of slang and curious analogies.

Lennox once again looked up. "Yeah, good luck with that," he said dryly, somehow managing to keep his face blank of amusement.

The captain had a point. For a while, none of the Autobots spoke, considering the options they had. As much as Optimus would have preferred to keep his both comrade and ward safely hidden away from this threat, at least until an answer could be found, doing so would only attract unwanted attention—especially if they were being monitored.

"Ironhide," he said. "You will aid…" Optimus hesitated only a beat. "…Sam in learning what he needs to pass as Bumblebee. Once he has delivered Bumblebee to his usual destination, he will return here." He paused now, noting the wicked gleam in the weapon specialist's eye. "I have no doubt in Bumblebee's ability to blend in with the humans. He has been doing so for a very long time."

"Whoa, wait, my place?" Lennox stood, brushing grass off his jeans. "Why my place? I just got my girl to sleep, guys. No. No robots. No_canons_." The last was directed at the black Autobot, accompanied by a pointed glare.

This earned him an arched brow. "Your home is ill-suited for combat training, Lennox," Ironhide informed him loftily. "We will proceed with Sam's instruction at a more appropriate location, after reconvening here."

"Thanks…"

If the Autobots noted his sarcasm, they chose to ignore it. Optimus finished his orders—instructing Ratchet to continue his dissection of the bomb components—before he transformed, heading back the way he'd come. There were patrols to make, after all. And with his comrades busy, there was no one else to do them. Plus, it provided ample opportunity to keep an eye out for the lurking Decepticons.

As the dust from their leader's departure vanished down the road, Ratchet looked toward his bigger comrade. "If you break anything of his, I will personally take the replacement parts from your interior," the medic warned.

"Yeah, yeah," was the indifferent response. "Don't worry."

Growling out what was most likely an extraordinary curse, Ratchet disappeared back into the barn. The captain had a momentary pang of sympathy for the medic—at times, he seemed the sanest of the lot. That was a position he was becoming accustomed to recently. Leaning against a massive ankle, Lennox pressed a palm against his eye, muttering. "This is _fucking_ screwed up," he sighed. "So screwed up."

Somewhere above him, he heard Ironhide chuckle darkly in agreement.

"Hey. Hey Mikaela, hey!"

Slowly, she looked up into gleaming blue eyes. "What, Sam?"

"I can totally do the Robot now."

To illustrate this point, Sam slowly moved his arms—swinging them back and forth as if he were the standard type of robot found on earth. They nearly careened into Bumblebee and Mikaela. She swore, and he merely hit the ground. "Sam!" she snapped.

"Sorry! Sorry, sorry!" The hands froze, and Sam crouched down, concern on his metal face. "Are you guys okay?"

Mikaela only glared. "I'd be better if you'd start taking this seriously!" she informed him.

"Hey, it's a coping mechanism!" He started to shrug, then thought better of it.

The ire in her eyes faded to a look of skepticism. "Coping mechanism," she repeated, doubtfully.

"Yeah, coping mechanism," he said. "Do you know how freaking scary this is? My eyes are cameras, Mikaela. Cameras!"

With an angry sigh, she turned away from him, kneeling to help Bumblebee to his feet. Automatically, he started to reach for her. He fought down the urge before his hand moved, saving him any embarrassment. If he tried to make it up to her—the way he usually did—his Mikaela would be pulp. She'd never looked so fragile to him before. It was hard to think of someone who took down shrieking Decepticons with a jig saw as anything but strong. All the same, he was suddenly, intensely aware of how easy it would be to accidentally break her.

And he didn't like it.

Speechless for once in his life, he sat back down. There was less chance of him damaging anyone if he sat very still and kept his—figurative—mouth shut. Bumblebee looked up at him, face oddly blank. It was strange to see Sam's own normally expressive face drawn in just a plain, bland look. There was something off about the eyes too—they were too old for the young face. Bumblebee held himself very still despite his new form, and when he did deign to move, each motion was fluid, if highly overdone. He seemed to be adjusting better than his ward.

"It isn't so bad, Sam," said Bumblebee. Even his voice was off—stilted, overly formal. "You could be worse off. You could be Ironhide." An exaggerated smile crossed the human-Bee's face. "If you had kept up with your hand motions in his form, I suspect the canons would have leveled the surrounding countryside by now."

The image broke apart some of the pall of tension hanging over the group.

"You're taking this well, considering," Mikaela said. She stood nearer Bumblebee than Sam, but occasionally caught herself, and stepped closer to her boyfriend-turned-Autobot. Old habits were hard to break.

Bumblebee gave a helpless shrug that sent his shoulders up into the vicinity of his ears. "I am accustomed to coping with…" He paused, searching for the right words. "Situations such as these."

"You mean… you guys randomly just decide, 'hey, I wanna try out Optimus' body for a while, I think I'll hop over and check it out'?" Sam quipped.

Confusion clouded Bumblebee's new face. "What?" he asked, completely bemused by the sudden, bizarre question.

Sam started to wave him off, but caught himself in time. "Never mind," he finished lamely. The silence that followed was awkward, and in Sam's mind, irritated. It was all well and good for Bee. Bumblebee could wiggle a finger and not risk knocking their head off their shoulders. He could touch Mikaela without causing massive amounts of internal bleeding.

Something put a hand on his arm. It felt horribly small. Mikaela stood beside him, studying him with an expression somewhere between intrigued and concerned. He desperately wanted to return the gesture of affection, but settled for words instead.

"Hey, don't worry," Sam told her with more conviction than he felt. "Y'know… it's kinda cool being two stories tall. And I mean, hey. I'll get into drive-ins free now, right?"

"Yeah." She smiled thinly, trying to hide her anxiety. "I just…" A pause while she gathered herself. "Can you even feel that?"

"Sort of," he admitted. "It's like… I dunno. It's like…" Sam was, for once, at a loss for words. "... it's like it's through a winter coat. Like… I know it's there. But real far away."

She took a step forward, and touched his face. One perfect eyebrow arched. "This?"

"Same."

Mikaela's eyes lost focus—her mind wandering. Carefully, he pulled back from her, glancing over towards where Bumblebee stood. He was gingerly plucking at the fabric of Sam's sweatshirt.

"What about you, Bee?" Sam asked. If he didn't take Mikaela's attention off him, and his off her, he was going to scream. "You like being… squishy?"

Somewhat startled, Bumblebee looked up from his investigation of teenage clothing. "Well…" His face screwed up into what was assumedly a thoughtful expression. "I suppose it's a bit like what you might call an out of body experience," He said. "However, everything here is made for creatures like you, so this..."

Now it was Bumblebee's turn to pause in thought. "It just feels more like home. Things feel right—not as if I'll break them easily." A too-wide grin split his face. "However, your body, Sam—it is remarkably light."

To illustrate his point, Bumblebee spread his arms out in an incredulous gesture. This resulted in his once again gesturing too hard, and he nearly toppled over onto the grass. Sam offered his friend a hand to lean on, trying, and failing, not to chuckle. "Seems this will take more getting used to than I thought," said Bumblebee. He was attempting, and failing in the same manner as Sam, to look nonchalant. Instead, he looked as if he'd eaten a lemon.

Sensing a jibe, Mikaela deftly steered the conversation away from Bumblebee. She turned to Sam—the mere motion causing him to lose interest in his half-constructed taunt. "So…" she began, still thoughtful. "What about... transforming?"

"Haven't tried yet," Sam answered. He looked to Bee. "Well? How's it work? Think like a car or something?"

An exaggerated shrug. "You simply think about it," Bumblebee informed him. When silence met his explanation, he elaborated. "You know—like breathing."

Both humans stared.

"Dude, you don't… think to breathe…" Sam stammered. "If you are, get out of my body. Now."

If Bumblebee had a reply, the sudden intrusion of a huge shadow cut him off.

All three looked up into the scarred visage of Ironhide. Lennox stood near his feet, giving them a casual wave. Thankfully, they gave no indication they had heard any of the awkward conversation. "Got some news for you," the captain said.

"Fantastic," Sam muttered. "What? Did Mojo switch brains with your kid?"

"Watch it."

Even looking down on Lennox, Sam felt intimidated by the man. It was hard not to be. The captain had faced down Decepticons with nothing more than the gun in his hand. You had to admire that. "Nothing, sorry," Sam said. "Uh, you were saying?"

"We'll keep this simple," said Lennox. He pointed at Bumblebee. "You… you. School." Now the finger pointed at the house. "Get in there and wait up for me. You're taking Sam's place on the roster today."

At their incredulous looks, the looming black Autobot elaborated. "Optimus' orders," said Ironhide. "The chance of the Decepticons noticing the… problem… is significantly reduced if it appears nothing has changed."

Bumblebee nodded. Missions like this were his specialty. He had few worries about his ability to pass for Sam—he would even have Mikaela accompanying him on this excursion. "No problem," he said, striking a casual pose almost similar to one in Sam's repertoire.

"What about my parents?" Sam cut in. "Won't they notice something? They're my _parents_ after all."

In answer, Ironhide simply flexed his arms, the gesture indicating his cannons. "They will be dealt with," he growled finally.

"Yeah, by me," added the captain. "Don't worry, we'll get you covered, kid. You concentrate on what you need to do—let us concentrate on your parents."

Sam raised a brow at that. "Okay… so…" he began with no small amount of apprehension. "What am I going to do?"

"Combat training."

Had he still been in possession of a stomach, Sam's would have sunk to the bottom of the earth. He looked up at the weapons specialist, who was, currently, wearing the wickedest grin he had ever seen on an Autobot. Part of him wanted to transform, right then and there, peel out across Lennox's lawn, and not stop until he hit the Canadian border. "Uh, great…" he managed. It was of small comfort that he lacked the vocal cords that certainly would have left him squeaking. "Great. Bee gets to take algebra and I get to be turned into cannon fodder."

Bumblebee tilted his head, grinning up at Sam. "Only algebra? You didn't tell me it would be so easy," he snickered.

"For any Decepticon worth their neural network, you will need to be able to defend yourself, in order to appear as Bumblebee," rumbled Ironhide, pointedly ignoring his comrade. "He is a warrior. You, Sam, are not. And it shows." He turned, heading in the direction of the surrounding scrub forest. "Lennox, I trust you with Bumblebee. Sam, follow."

It felt like a very long time before Sam's feet would move. When mobility finally returned, he bent towards Mikaela. "Mikaela, whatever happens… However this ends up…"

She stared at him. "Yeah…?"

"Don't believe a word he says!" Sam hissed. "He's going to kill me! Look for the body!"

Both Bumblebee and Lennox wore identical expressions—falling somewhere between annoyed and amused. Mikaela gave him a weak smile, before Lennox hauled the two into the house.

Watching her retreating back, Sam tried to fight off the feeling he was seeing her for the last time. The low, menacing growl of an engine snapped him out of his reverie, and back into the nightmare. Ironhide had transformed, and now sat, idling, near a half-hidden track through the scrub forest. Truck or no, Sam was not inclined to give the big Autobot a reason to anger—that truck alone could knock him off his unsteady robotic feet. Tentatively, Sam approached, and nearly retreated when the engine revved at him.

"Well?" Ironhide said. "Transform. I'm not walking to a suitable location."

"Uh," he stuttered. "What's wrong with… here?" _Where there're witnesses, _he added silently.

The truck shook slightly on its wheels. "This is a fragile dwelling. Should we attempt the necessary exercises, it will be pulverized." Something in the matter-of-fact tone Ironhide took worried Sam further. "Now, hurry up. We don't have all day."

When Sam did not move, the truck unfolded, warping until the black Autobot glared down at his charge of the day. "See, that's the thing!" Sam yelped, backing up. "You guys… transform. We—I mean me—stay… we stay as one thing! There's no muscle for turning into a car!"

His answer apparently did not impress his teacher. Ironhide stood impassively, watching Sam with his good eye. He did not say a word. Somehow, that was far more intimidating. It was as if the entire world was out to make Sam feel three inches tall—ironic, given the present circumstances.

"Okay, okay, just give me a second."

Sam took another step back to think. What had Bumblebee said? _You simply think about it. Like breathing._ That wasn't as clear as he'd been hoping. Did he have to think about being a car? Or about the actual transformation? If it was the latter, he was hopelessly out of luck. Quick as they were about it, it would have taken an idiot not to notice how intricate the change from robot to vehicle was. There was no possible way for Sam to have remembered every nuance of it.

He tried the former first. As hard as his teenage brain could, he concentrated on the thought of the yellow Camaro. He pictured it, sleek and shining in the sun, blinding bright yellow. Every line and curve—he had it in his mind. The entirety of his mind focused exclusively on the car he had come to know so well, until he could almost feel the smooth leather interior under his fingers.

Nothing happened.

Frustrated, he looked up at the other Autobot, only to be met with the glowing orange interior of Ironhide's right cannon. A low whirr emitted from the weapon, indicating it was prepared to fire at any moment. The gaze behind the weapon was blue steel, cold, uncaring.

And then Sam was scrambling to run away. He hit the ground, tearing straight across the lawn in a burst of shifting metal and exhaust. It didn't dawn on him until he felt the gravel road under his tires. Brakes squealed.

Somehow, he was his car. He could feel the gravel beneath his tires, the sun off his body, and the breeze singing through the open windows. The view was odd, distorted slightly, as if seen from a distance. The colors looked duller than normal. It was as if he were looking at his surroundings from behind a camera. Sounds came as if from headphones—pure, but tinny and vibrating.

Slowly, he turned around, performing the greatest three-point-turn of his short life, and faced Ironhide. The Autobot had not moved, but as Sam turned, he lowered the cannon. It disappeared into his forearm when he motioned the teen forward.

"Dude," Sam snapped as he drew close again. "You were going to _shoot_ me."

Grunting, Ironhide transformed back. "It worked," growled the truck. "Now, move out."

"That was a gun. In my face. You were going to _shoot_ me."

Wordlessly, the weapons specialist moved off into the forest. With no small amount of apprehension, Sam followed, wishing Bumblebee better luck than he.

"Out of the car."

"What?" Startled, Mikaela came back to herself. For the entire drive from Lennox's farm, she'd had her eyes focused on the back of the passenger seat in front of her. They'd taken Lennox's actual car, as none of the Autobots were available for transportation duties. The top of Sam—no, Bumblebee's head was barely visible over the top of the seat, his hair still damp from the hasty shower Lennox had all but thrown him into. It was almost impossible to think of the boy in front of her as anything but the gawky teen she'd come to care for. The fact she was going to be babysitting said teenager's guardian for the entire day did little to help. It would be best, she felt, if she could get away for a while. Take some time to come to terms with everything before being tossed back out into the battlefield. It smacked too much of recent events.

She glanced around at their surroundings and frowned. "We're like a whole block away from school," she informed their driver. "We'll probably be late."

"Yeah, well," Lennox said. He half-turned in the well-worn seat, raising a suntanned brow. "I'm sure you already get enough weird questions without some guy ten years older than you driving you around. Now hop out. I need to go make sure my house is still standing."

"Fine." Mikaela eased the rear door open and slid out. "Let's go, Bee."

Bumblebee paused before exiting, throwing Lennox an exaggerated wave. "Thank you, Captain."

"Yeah." The silence that followed was awkward. Lennox glanced into the backseat, eyeing the well-secured car seat. His daughter stared back, the bleary infant gaze somewhat accusatory. He winced. "Well, you kids—aliens… whatever, have a good day… don't do drugs or… yeah. Later."

Once both passengers were safely deposited on the sidewalk, the pickup drove off, leaving them in a swirl of exhaust. Mikaela took a deep breath once it had passed. Last night, she'd been dreading school for more reasons more mundane than keeping an eye on an alien robot in her boyfriend's body. There was no way out of it now. People were counting on their success. "Come on, Bee," she said. "We're going to be late."

He was starting at her, offering one of those too-wide smiles. "Ready when you are," he said. "This way?"

She shouldn't have been surprised he knew where he was going. After all, Bumblebee did drive them back and forth to school every day. However, the real shock came when he took her arm, leading her in the direction of the school. When she pulled back, he looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, Mikaela," he said. "But won't it look odd if you and…" He gestured at himself. "Sam are not in close proximity to one another?"

Of course, he was right. People were going to talk if the school's latest couple suddenly stopped fawning over one another. Mikaela started walking, managing to get to the end of the block before answering Bumblebee. "It's just… it's weird," she managed. "You're Bee. You're not… Sam. It feels…" Before she got any further, she stopped herself. "Here, hold my hand. You don't do the arm thing."

Obediently, he slid his hand into hers, and, for a while, she could pretend nothing was different. When he was quiet, it was easy to imagine it was Sam who really walked beside her—that things were going to turn out all right. He even moved closer to her, just as the real Sam would have. The spell was broken, however, as he began to hum.

_Sam never sings on-key._

Bumblebee continued to hum not one song, but several strung together in a way few humans would ever have thought of. His smile took on a more natural look as he continued, to her disappointment. It was obviously comforting to him, but she'd hoped for just a bit more time with her daydream.

As they passed the last block, the school loomed into view, the front lawns already crawling with students. Cars both gleaming and gritty filled the parking lot. Keeping her eyes up, Mikaela led Bumblebee down the sidewalk, and up the path to the front doors. More than a few clusters of people looked up as they approached. The fact that one group looked decidedly unfriendly registered immediately. Mikaela felt a flutter of nervousness rise in her chest. Could they really pull this off?

"Is this how I am supposed to walk?" Bumblebee asked, cutting into her dark thoughts. "Or should I be a bit further away?"

He sounded so concerned she had to smile. She turned to answer, and missed the skateboard lying haphazardly in the middle of the path. Too late, she shifted her weight, flinging out her arms to try and prevent the scrapes she knew were coming.

A pair of hands, seemingly out of nowhere, wrapped around her shoulders, pulling easily upright. Distantly, over the embarrassed roar in her ears, she could hear the cheering of her classmates. "Nice save!" someone shouted.

"Are you all right, Mikaela?"

Sam's voice in her ear—but definitely not Sam's choice of words. She pulled away from Bumblebee, noting in fear how many eyes were watching them. Sam would never have been able to pull off a move like that—he would have ended up sprawled on top of her, loudly demanding his innocence, and if she were all right. Judging from their reactions, the students had picked up on this little detail as well. Samuel Witicky was many things. Graceful was not one of them.

"Fine, thanks," she mumbled, making an attempt at brushing off the oddity. "We have to go."

Bumblebee nodded once before offering her his hand. Instead, she twined an arm around his waist, just as she would if he were Sam. Awkwardly, he draped his hand on her shoulder, putting on his grin again. She marched inside, taking a step away from him as soon as they were away from prying eyes. Bumblebee didn't say a word, but looked mildly relieved all the same.

Everything went relatively as planned until they entered their shared history class.

Until then, Bumblebee had been doing an admirable job in playing the part of a high school student. He even pretended to doze off in class. Mikaela managed to field encounters with other students by virtue of her status as Sam's girlfriend. She pulled him close, much to Bumblebee's surprise, and acted as if they were currently engaged in the usual teenage display of affection. There was no real intimacy between them—no kissing, nothing but the close proximity needed to convince the outside world. Even so, both of them were relieved whenever the bell summoned them to class.

Even an encounter with Sam's closest human friend went better than Mikaela had expected it to. Miles managed to corner them between third period and lunch, slipping between them with practiced ease before she could do anything to block him. He shot Mikaela a smug grin. To his credit, Bumblebee just blinked, then grinned. "Hey, Miles," said Bumblebee. "What's going on?"

"Where were you last night, dude?" the other boy asked. "I called like, five times."

Mikaela opened her mouth to provide their cover story, but Miles cut her off. "And don't give me a 'you were over at Mikeala's', cause her mom would in no way be chill with that," he said, blatantly ignoring her. "And I don't care how cozy you two are. In no way are you comfortable enough to do that yet. I should know. So, man, what gives?"

To her surprise, Bumblebee answered him, doing a reasonable impression of Sam in the process. "Yeah, I uh… I was out… Y'know… driving my car," he said. Only a quick, nervous gesture gave him away to Mikaela's eye—he briefly rubbed his throat, as if it hurt him. "Got a little lost and spent all night looking out for… coyotes."

Miles just stared. "I was calling your cell phone," he said. "You were driving around getting lost without your phone, man?"

Suddenly, Bumblebee broke character, a wide frown crossing his face. "Oh, that's right," he muttered. "That was most likely what I ran over last night…"

The sudden formality of his words was not lost on Miles, who gaped, even as Mikaela fumbled out some excuse, and hustled Bumblebee away before the other boy could recover his wits. When he found them again, Mikaela had once more resorted to throwing her arms around Bumblebee, keeping close without any more contact than necessary. More than slightly disgusted, Miles let them be.

These displays did not go unnoticed by certain members of the athletically inclined species. Like most of his type, Trent did not take kindly to other males taking what he considered to be his property. Sam had managed to avoid him since returning to school, but Mikaela's obvious attentions to the boy was far more obvious today than it had ever been. Needless to say, the football star took this as a direct insult, and fully intended to exact retribution.

He waited until the two entered the classroom—history was the perfect time to begin, as this was the only class he shared with the couple. Waiting until their backs were turned, he aimed the rubber band and fired.

Admittedly, it wasn't the best plan in the world. However, no one had ever said Trent was the epitome of creativity. And it had worked so very well the last time.

Before the rubber projectile hit its mark, Witwicky spun, snatching it out of the air. There was a cold, dangerous light in his eye. For the briefest instant, the boy had a feeling he was not looking at Sam Witwicky at all, that something else was glaring at him from behind those hard eyes.

This revelation was soon forgotten as the rubber band suddenly cracked against Trent's own broad forehead. It was a moment or two before he regained his minimal wits enough to seek out the perpetrator. No one volunteered—until Witwicky turned in his seat, waving cheekily at the bigger boy. He turned his back as their teacher entered, missing the malevolent glare leveled his way.

Mikaela, however, did not. She stifled a sigh, sinking deeper into her seat, trying to ignore the obvious threat from behind them. It appeared a new obstacle had just planted itself stubbornly in their path. Not at all listening to the lecture, she tilted her head back, wishing for Sam.

_Hope he's okay…_

* * *

A/N: No, this is not Bee/Mikaela. This is platonic contact born out of pantomime. 


	6. Thursday, 2PM to 6PM

A/N: Just a quick advert before we get started. IAmLazarus and I have started up an RPG of sorts, for Transformers '07 of course. If anyone's interested, we're still taking players. It can be found at my profile page--since FFN doesn't seem to like me posting URLs anymore. Hmpf. Now, on to fanfiction!

* * *

6. 

An eerie silence lay over the open field. No birds twittered, no small insects clicked, and the only raccoons alive lived miles away. Interspersed with the dry grass and sagebrush were a handful of boulders, lying half embedded in the earth. It was an utterly desolate, empty plain, where no living thing set foot. On some level, it would have been tranquil, almost peaceful, should one have been in the right frame of mind.

A shot suddenly rang out and blew a large boulder out of the ground. It flew several feet into the air, grass tufts still holding on for dear life.

"What the hell is wrong with you!"

The hysterical shout came from the yellow Camaro making record time over the empty field. Each time it paused behind a boulder, a well-calculated shot sent the rock flying, and the car twisting, scrambling for the next bit of cover. The shots came from a towering form, standing calmly at the base of an oversized boulder. Each shot was chosen carefully, fired only after eyeing the movements of the Camaro.

"Think about where you are going!" Ironhide barked. He aimed another blast. "And where I am aiming! Then, avoid it!"

"Fuck that!" Sam yelped.

_He's trying to kill me. Oh my god, he's trying to kill me. He's a Decepticon in disguise. I'm going to die a virgin—oh my god._

Sam had lost track of the number of times he'd ducked, transformed, or just plain ran away from the smoldering craters of cannon shot. If he ever got out of this alive, he was going to spend the rest of his robotic existence behind Optimus. Theoretically, if anyone could stop the weapons specialist from turning Sam into a scorched pile of metal, it was the Autobot leader. Especially since he had the sinking suspicion Ironhide's brand of training wasn't exactly what Optimus had in mind.

Suddenly, a pall of silence fell over the field. Hardly daring to believe his luck, Sam peered out from behind an uprooted boulder, tensed and ready to duck back into hiding should this be a test of his courage. To his relief, Ironhide's cannons had vanished back into his forearms.

"There," he rumbled. "Now that you are able to transform at will… the real combat training can begin."

"You have got to be kidding me," Sam managed. Only his new body kept him from staring, slack-jawed, at the Autobot. "That wasn't… what was that?"

Ironhide only squared his shoulders. "Let's see what you know," he growled. He appeared quite serious. This inference was only strengthened when he dropped into a half crouch, motioning Sam towards him. "Come at me."

"Hell, no." Sam shook his head, backing away. He kept his hands up both as a defense and as a gesture of entreaty. "You're like, ten times bigger than I am. No way is this going to end well."

His instructor did not move an inch—did not even blink. Sam got the eerie feeling that, should he move, Ironhide would be on him faster than the T-rex from _Jurassic Park_. He had seen what the black Autobot could do—it was hard not to when you were running almost right underneath his mammoth feet. Consequently, Sam had no desire to be anywhere near those huge hands. But, when it became apparent that Ironhide was fully prepared to wait Sam out, he edged closer, almost unconsciously. It was a stalemate, and the teen lacked the patience needed to win.

The moment he was within range, Ironhide lunged at him. Sam barely registered this fact before he was running again, doing his best not to scream.

For his size, the Autobot moved surprisingly fast. In what felt like no time at all, he had caught up, and clamped a heavy hand on Sam's shoulder, effectively cutting off his panicked escape. Sam spun around, trying to duck under Ironhide's reach, in order to shove him off, twist away, something. Yet, despite his wild writhing, the black Autobot just held on tighter, watching Sam with something akin to amusement on his normally impassive features. Then, in a simple movement, he had Sam pinned against the dry, dusty ground. Sam let out an automatic exclamation of surprise, followed quickly by a string of protests and indignant ranting that did not subside until Ironhide stood and hauled him back to his feet.

"Read your opponent," he rumbled. "You're right—you are not as large as I am. If you attacked a Decepticon the same way you did just now…" One huge hand smashed into the other, metal crackling. "You'd be scrap."

"No shit," Sam snapped. He shook out his limbs experimentally—none of them seemed terribly damaged, though there was some stiffness of the legs. Some small, perverse part of him wanted to inform Ratchet, just to get back at his instructor. "Thanks for the news flash there. I was just planning on testing that one the first chance I got, good thing you brought this up." Looking up, he gestured in the direction of the house. "We should just head back now."

Ironhide regarded him with a scarred optic. "Bumblebee is a scout," he said, as if that explained everything. "You won't be able to take as much damage as the rest of us. And since there's no way for you to learn everything Bumblebee knows… And use it…" He looked over at the scrub forest, the amusement once again finding its way onto his face. "We're going to teach you to fight dirty."

Before Sam could protest, or even speak, he was dragged over to the closest tree. In spite of the climate, it had managed to get to a respectable height, so that its tallest branches were even above Sam's head. A few of them had gathered nearby, as if clustered around an invisible pool. "So, by fight dirty… you mean go gardening?" he asked.

"If you were fighting me here," Ironhide continued, apparently ignoring Sam's quips. "What could you use to your advantage?"

_Not the boulders_, Sam thought. _That's for sure._ Glancing around, he could spot little that would provide what he deemed to be "good cover". Nor were there any convenient grenade launchers lying around. "I got nothing," he said finally. "A jackalope? Maybe?"

In response, one of Ironhide's hands wrapped itself around the tree trunk and, with a smooth _yank_, the tree was ripped from its roots. "Use whatever you can," he told Sam. "Disable the enemy until backup arrives."

"Hey!" Sam said. He waved his arm at the Autobot. "I have a gun too, y'know! It took out a tank!"

"Bumblebee had help." There was no condescension in Ironhide's voice, only simple fact. "And has had the training you don't. Unless you think you could hit a Decepticon optic at four blocks away." When Sam didn't offer a coherent response, Ironhide just shook his head. "So, until you can, you'll beat them to the ground with the nearest heavy object, or explosive device… and then get your backside out of there before they turn you to scrap. Got it?"

Sam managed a nod. Most of his attention was distracted by attempting to size up the tree in front of him. Even with the strength of his new body, he rather doubted he'd be able to lift it, let alone use it as an oversized baseball bat. It was bigger than he was! As if hearing his inner monologue, Ironhide stepped aside, gesturing to a slightly smaller, more manageable, bit of flora. He attempted to pull it free, the same way his instructor had, but the only thing that came free were a few stripped branches. He tried again, straining.

It was only after several miserable attempts, one of which ended with Sam flopped on the ground, that he managed to tug it free. "Hah!" he shouted, waving the heavy trunk in the air. He turned to Ironhide, half expecting either praise or lecture—only to be knocked backwards by a well-calculated strike with the larger tree.

"What the hell was that for!" Sam sputtered, righting himself.

"You dropped your guard," came the reply. "Your enemy would not hesitate to take you down. So, I did not."

Frustration welled up. Why was he here? He should have been at the school, driving around town, anywhere but here, being abused by a crotchety old robot. Why should he have to put up with this because of an accident? Bumblebee didn't let himself get thrown around by his comrades. Neither should he.

_Bumblebee knows how to protect himself… _

So what if he did? It had been an accident that had caused this, not a direct attack. The Decepticons were defeated—Sam had been there for that. There was no reason for him to take this—especially if he were just going to go back to being human again. He dropped the tree, glaring up at the black Autobot. "Okay? Fine. I get it," he said. "Decepticons are bad and they're going to cut me into tiny pieces if they get a chance." The kick he aimed at the tree trunk was immensely satisfying. "But they won't. Because once Ratchet figures the bomb out, everything's going to be cool and I'll go back to being ridiculously handsome and popular again."

Stony, uncomfortable silence.

The frustration was slowly replaced by dread. Perhaps Ironhide hadn't understood. Sam tried elaborating. "And by ridiculously handsome, I mean human," he said slowly. "Not that you guys aren't… never mind. I'm just saying, none of this is going to matter once Ratchet can get me back to normal again."

"Unless you can't get back," said the Autobot. "You should consider the possibility you won't return to being human."

It was a while before Sam could speak. The tendrils of dread working their way up his metal spine suddenly hit harder. "Oh come on, you're kidding. Right?" he managed. "This kind of thing is kid stuff for you guys. You deal with this kind of random crap all the time..." Despite his best efforts, the last sentence came out in a tone of desperation.

His spirits sank further when Ironhide only shook his head. "I can honestly say we have never had one Autobot in the body of another," he growled. "I would have been informed."

"But, I mean, come on! This is ridiculous!" Sam was shouting now, gesturing wildly, as if by movement alone he could make everything right. "Of course it's reversible! I can't be this! This is crazy!"

It had never hit him that he and Bumblebee could be permanently swapped. He felt as if the realization should make him dizzy, but his mechanical brain still worked without hesitation, bringing up images that only added to his agitation. What would happen to him? What about school? His parents? His friends?

_Mikaela?_

Now Sam did lose his balance, sitting heavily on the ground. The tree trunk in front of him suddenly became the most interesting thing to look at. He was going to lose everything. He'd worked so hard to get his life on track—getting the car, getting the girl, saving the world. And for what? It was all lost, all because of some stupid accident.

"What am I gonna do…?" he mumbled.

A heavy hand came to rest on his shoulder, tightening once in a brief gesture of reassurance. Confused, Sam looked up, meeting a scarred, black face. "Train," was all that Ironhide said.

Somehow, it was enough. Sam allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. And, for the rest of the afternoon, he did as he was told.

* * *

_He's late_. 

That was the only thought on her mind. Bumblebee was apparently oblivious to her agitation, having distracted himself with her CD player. He was seated on the steps, tapping his foot, and occasionally humming along to the music. For all intents and purposes, he appeared to be nothing more than a license-bereft teen waiting for his ride home.

By contrast, she was pacing before the stairs, her gaze straying from her watch to the entrance of the parking lot and back. She wanted nothing more than to climb into Lennox's truck and get back to the relative security of the captain's home. Sam's house was out of the question. Parents knew their children, and no amount of acting on Bumblebee's part would have been enough to convince them their son was who he said he was. Lennox had assured her he would take care of it, but she wasn't going to relax until the public was miles away—until she saw Sam again.

Bumblebee had laughed away her worries that Ironhide would actually do lasting damage to Sam. "He is under doctor's orders to keep him in one piece," the Autobot had said with a grin. It wasn't injury Mikaela was concerned about. She wanted to be there with him, in case his usual nature broke under the strain of the oddity. She wanted to help him, but there was nothing, she realized, she could logically help him with.

Most girlfriends could embrace their men, comfort them through touch and affection. Unfortunately for both Sam and Mikaela, that was out of the question, which left her in a decidedly awkward and upsetting position.

The sound of slamming doors snapped her attention back from thought. Footsteps announced the arrival of a sizable group, headed unerringly in their direction. She turned in time to see Bumblebee duck under a well-aimed fist, somehow getting on his feet in the same motion. Several familiar boys were gathered around, an unwelcome figure at their head.

"Trent, what the hell are you doing?" she shouted.

They ignored her. Moving in on Bumblebee, they surrounded him on all sides, preventing any escape, and then proceeded to, as the saying goes "wale on him". Or, at least, they tried to. It would have been a slaughter, had Sam still been in his original body. Bumblebee however, appeared to have no difficulty with the four-on-one confrontation, ducking and twisting his body away from harm. When Mikaela could see him, she could have sworn there was a grin on his face—he was playing with them.

She really should stay out of this. Bumblebee could take care of himself. There was no reason to think he would get hurt.

So there was no real explanation for why she stormed up to Trent, and shoved him as hard as she could into the handrail of the stairs. He staggered a bit, staring at her as if he'd just now noticed her. The confusion was quickly replaced by his usual superior smirk. "Listen sweetheart," he said. "This is for the men, okay?" He moved closer to her, grasping her shoulders. "You go wait inside for me. We'll be done here in a second."

Mikaela twisted, shoving him away again. "No," she snapped. "Screw you. Leave B—Sam alone."

This time, when he grabbed her, his fingers dug into her skin. "Don't you tell me what to do," Trent said. The smirk was gone, now nothing but testosterone-induced rage gleamed in his eye. "You think you're better than me? Running around with this little freak?"

She didn't get the chance to respond. Trent's hands were forcibly ripped away as he fell over backwards, slamming against the pavement with a dull thud and an angry shout. There were equally irate murmurs among his three followers.

"You are all right?"

Looking down, she met Bumblebee's concerned gaze. He was dropped in a crouch, having apparently knocked the more aggressive boy over with a precise sweep of a leg. She gave him a nod, extending a hand down to help him up.

Before she could, Bumblebee was yanked off his feet by the already-standing Trent. The bigger boy held him a good six inches off the ground, intending to slam him into the nearby wall. He didn't get very far. Bumblebee pried himself easily out of Trent's grasp, landing in a practiced crouch on the ground.

When the punches came, he simply ducked out of the way time and time again, never striking back. He was not smiling this time. The other boys had wisely backed up—this was their leader's battle, not theirs.

Trent attempted a feint with his left, coming around to surprise his opponent with his right. It left him open for attack, and Bumblebee took the opportunity. He drove a fist expertly into the boy's midriff, toppling him.

For a moment, no one moved. Then, Bumblebee straightened, studiously ignoring the gasping antagonist. He offered Mikaela his hand, then marched down the sidewalk. Behind them, the boys scrambled to aid their leader, who only gasped for breath, staring after the departing pair.

"Don't let them walk away from me," he managed between panting. "Do something…!" A gasping pause. "Fuck 'em."

At that, the blare of a car horn cut the air. All heads turned to face the new arrival, waving at the couple out the window of a battered blue pickup. "Need a lift?" the driver called, a grin plastered across his tanned face.

Mikaela all but stomped over to the captain. Less irritated, Bumblebee followed, offering Lennox a wave in return. They climbed in the back, Mikaela all but growling. "You're late," she informed him. "If you were on time, we wouldn't have had to put up with that macho bullshit."

"Oh no," Lennox informed them, pulling smoothly out of the parking lot. "I was there for… a long time. It was just so damn funny, I couldn't break it up." He chuckled. "Seeing a kid like that break a couple heads like those… damn, wish I had a camera."

"He could have been hurt!" snapped Mikaela, exasperated. Was no one taking this seriously? "_We_ could have been hurt!"

She was about to say more, but Bumblebee cut her off. "You were in no danger," he assured her, quietly. "I am your guardian as much as Sam's. No matter my form, I will perform my duty." Some of the seriousness in his words was dulled by the sudden appearance of a grin. "Although… there is something to be said for the satisfaction in… 'breaking a couple heads like those'." He almost glared. "That boy spilled his drink on my hood last week. In the hot sun."

Bumblebee's indignation over the spill brought some humor to the situation. Mikaela found herself smirking, despite her worries. "How are things back at the house?" she asked, leaning forward in her seat.

"I dunno, those two have been gone all day," Lennox answered. He sounded relieved. "It must be going well, whatever it is they're up to."

"You see?" asked Bumblebee. He awkwardly patted Mikaela's shoulder. "Everything is fine."

She offered him a hesitant smile. Nothing else was said on the drive back, unless you counted Lennox and Bumblebee's rather interesting rendition of classic rock.

As they pulled into the driveway, none of the Autobots were in sight—until Optimus Prime's head cleared the roof of the two-story home. He glanced down at them, noting Bumblebee's salute with a nod. "Ironhide and Sam have not yet returned," the commander rumbled. "When they do, I have information for the three of you. It is best heard all at once."

"Yes, sir," Bumblebee called, cupping his hands around his mouth.

The giant withdrew. Behind the two, Lennox let out a low whistle. "You always sort of forget how big they are," he said. "Until they do that." His appreciative expression darkened. "Or blow up your trash cans." Not bothering to elaborate, he ushered them inside. "C'mon. I told Sarah you were coming."

"Is that all you told her?" Mikaela asked, following him into the house.

Before he could answer, there was a laugh from somewhere inside. "Sorry," the captain said. "She tortured it out of me."

They entered the kitchen, and were confronted with the sight of Sarah Lennox, carefully smothering icing across a small cake. She was dressed for work—office attire—and spared them a smile as they approached.

"Sorry," she said, indicating the baked goods. "But, Will's been such a big help lately—" Here, she was interrupted by her husband sliding an arm around her waist. "I thought he deserved a reward." Leaning into him, she studied Bumblebee. "You're a lot smaller than I remember you," she teased.

If she said anything else, Bumblebee didn't hear. The smell coming from the thing on the plate distracted him. He was suddenly aware of a sharp, vivid emptiness in him. It was unlike anything he'd felt before now. At the moment, he wanted nothing more than to tear into that cake, and put as much of it into his mouth as he possibly could.

He came back to himself in time to hear Sarah say, "If there's anything we can do to help, let me know, all right?"

"There is," he told her. "If I may, I would like some of that cake."

It took only a minute or two for the males to get their snack—Lennox had understandably concurred with Bumblebee's request—but it felt almost too long for the Autobot. Only his training kept him from tearing into the food with his bare hands, and even then he came perilously close to tossing the fork aside. The taste of it was something he never forgot—organic flavor was something of a new experience for him. It was rich, dark, and sweeter than anything he'd ever come across before in his long existence. From across the table, Lennox watched the display with a raised brow, then pushed his plate over. He rose, headed back to the fridge. The look on Bumblebee's face was just too good to pass up.

Rolling her eyes, Mikaela sank into a stool at the kitchen counter. This was, by far, the longest day of her life—not counting that day in Mission City. She just wanted it all to be over. Sam wasn't even here to commiserate with her. The only person who could was too busy devouring a sandwich half the size of his own head to offer any consolation. Even the captain appeared to find the situation more comical than he did worrisome. You'd think alien body-switching happened every day from the way he acted.

A mug appeared in front of her, steaming cocoa filling her nose with its scent. Mikaela looked up, meeting Sarah's smile. "I figured you didn't need a caffeine jolt," she said. "Otherwise I'd have brought you coffee."

"Thanks," the girl mumbled. She made no move to accept the drink.

The smile turned sad. "Rough day?"

"You have no idea."

There was a creak from the other stool as Sarah sat down, placing a comforting hand on Mikaela's shoulder. "I spent a week thinking my husband was killed by an unknown attacker," she said. "An alien war veteran regularly takes pot-shots at my trash cans and my daughter talks to her dad's matchbox cars." Pale brows rose in a sardonic smile. "Try me."

Finally, someone with sense was here. Someone who would do more than laugh—someone who understood that this was serious. Despite herself, Mikaela found it hard not to pour her frustrations out to the sympathetic ear Sarah Lennox was offering. Throughout the retelling, the older woman just nodded, occasionally offering her opinion and consolation. Had the situation not been so serious, Mikaela probably would have enjoyed the conversation. Not to mention the fact it was nice to finally vent at someone willing to listen.

But before they could reach any sort of resolution, a resounding _bang_ echoed from the side of the house. Both Mikaela and Bumblebee jumped to their feet, ready for the worst. However, the Lennoxes only looked resigned. Sarah pressed a hand to her face, muttering, "Will, your friend's here." She stood, heading for the stairs as the wail of a baby drifted down.

"Yeah, I'll go take care of it." Grumbling something about taking this to the doctor, he stormed to the door. "Damn it, Ironhide! Leave the raccoons alone!" he shouted into the backyard.

Mikaela glanced over at Bumblebee, who sighed and followed after the captain.

Outside, smoke clouded the air, thick with the scent of garbage. Mikaela fanned her face, as Bumblebee gagged. His skin took on a green tinge. As they rounded the side of the house, a familiar voice was chattering away in excitement, and both of them suppressed groans.

"Dude that was freakin' sweet!"

Sam was standing over the smoking ruin of the trash cans, in full battle mode. Despite the menacing gun and faceplate, his bouncing excitement and hand gestures took some of the edge off the sight. Having reached the scene before the others, Lennox was busy taking his frustrations out on Ironhide, who adamantly defended his innocence, protesting that the vermin had rabies and he was protecting Lennox's family.

"Don't teach the kid to blow up the trash, damn it!"

"There were no other available targets."

"The hell there weren't! And you, stop dancing around before you step on something!"

Obediently, Sam froze. The faceplate and weapon retracted, revealing the stunned expression on his face. He glanced from irate Lennox to the smoldering wreckage he'd created.

"Oops?" he offered.

"'Oops' my ass," the captain barked. "When you get back to normal, you're paying for those." A thoughtful, if angry pause. "At least your aim is good enough that you didn't hit the house. You _were_ aiming for the cans, right?"

"Oh, absolutely." Lennox gave him a long stare, then turned to walk back inside, passing the two teenagers on the way. He was muttering something about moving the cans into the garage, and looked thoroughly fed up with the entire situation. From the look on his face, chances were he wasn't about to emerge from the sanctity and sanity of his house any time soon.

After the captain departed, Sam looked down at Bumblebee for a moment. "Is that cake on your face?" he asked.

"I was quite hungry after school today," Bumblebee replied loftily. Then, glancing over at Mikaela, he leaned in with a whisper that would have worked better had Sam not been three times his size. "It tastes amazing!" he said complete seriousness and wide-eyed astonishment.

It slowly dawned on Sam that he had yet to eat anything, let alone feel inclined to do so. He didn't even feel the slightest bit hungry—something unusual for any teenage male. "Hey, do I need to, uh, like, 'ingest' anything?" he asked Bumblebee, running a nervous hand along the back of his head.

The answer came instead from behind him. "You core reactor should be fueling you just fine, so no," said Ratchet. The medical officer had noticed the impromptu conference that was forming and had apparently decided it was time to have one of his own. He approached the group, carrying odds and ends of discarded and blackened metal.

"A core reactor!" Sam nearly shrieked. Again, his saving grace was the lack of human vocal cords. "Ironhide is shooting at me, and shit! I'm this close to being Chernobyl?" Not only was the news disturbing to Sam, it was practically frightening.

"You shot at him?" Mikaela shot Ironhide a glance that even the weapons specialist had no response to at first. She looked as it she wanted to berate him further, but something else in Sam's words caught her attention. "Wait. Since when do you know what Chernobyl is Sam?"

"I did a report on it for my second A," he informed her, folding his arms across his chest.

"While this is all fascinating, we need to have a discussion," Ratchet cut into the quickly disintegrating conversation. He set the pieces he carried down, and motioned to the silent form standing guard over the opposite end of the backyard. "Optimus, it would be good if you were over here for this as well, sir."

The ground shook slightly with the monolith's footsteps. "What have you learned?" Optimus asked, crouching slightly to peer at the twisted metal bits before his medical officer.

Standing just scant feet from the Autobot commander, Sam was reminded of just how big Optimus really was. He thought perhaps his added height would have at least enabled him to look Optimus in the chest. Instead, he still had to crane his neck. It was a humbling experience, to say the least. No one else seemed fazed by this, not even Bumblebee. They were all standing about in anticipation of what Ratchet had to say. As far as Sam could tell, he had been holed up in the barn for pretty much the entire day and been quiet a field mouse, which, given his apparent penchant for shouting at his comrades/patients, was an accomplishment.

"I have been analyzing the data from both Bumblebee and Sam," Ratchet was saying as Sam came back from his thoughts. "Again, it seems that they are both in perfect health accept for the obvious problem."

"Well duh, we already knew that," Sam cut in.

The medic gave him a sharp glance. But, as much as he wanted to reprimand him, it was clear that the boy was simply antsy and doing his best to cover it up. "As far as I understand," he continued, as if nothing had interrupted him. "Our brains are close to computers, especially in that they use electrical current to transfer information. From what I have been able to study, the human brain also works in a similar fashion."

Now, Ratchet knelt, his hands hovering over the broken bits before him, as if trying to resist the urge to put them back together again. The others waited out the pause with a quiet shifting of metal. "It is likely…" he began again, somewhat hesitantly. "That at the time of the explosion, the electrical current that passed through them is what caused the switch. It was a one in a billion that it worked out like it did. It must have been at the exact voltage level. You are quite lucky."

"Oh, of course," Sam muttered, just loud enough for the medic to hear. "And today was just fantastic, my dream of what I'd do if I could ditch school."

Sam was trying his patience, but Ratchet had suffered through millennia of irritating patients, and he held his temper. "I mean lucky in that you at the very least should have died, not to mention that Bumblebee may have as well," he pointed out. "Yet, you both survived with a minimum of damage. Most likely, the fact that you both were in contact with one another saved your lives."

Sam was silent at this, realizing just how close they had both come to getting themselves killed. Bumblebee stood there, simply taking it in. He was used to putting his life on the line. A close scrape was just another note on the long list of times he's gotten out of danger barely in time. He gave Sam's ankle a reassuring pat, but Ratchet caught his eye. The medic looked anything but hopeful, sending Bumblebee's spirits straight to through the ground. What could possibly have Ratchet so worried…?

"So, let's get to it!" said Sam. "Start up another current and get this fixed, right? It shouldn't be that hard, we'll just pull down some power lines…" The large, robotic Sam caught his body's glance and stopped. There was something very serious creased in Bumblebee's face, a look that had never been used on a teenager's face before. "What?"

"Sam," Ironhide said slowly, speaking up for the first time. His voice was uneasy—too rough around the edges for his normal cadence. "Do you remember what we discussed earlier today?"

"Well yeah, but we know what made everything all crazy now," Sam replied, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. He was on the verge of pleading. There was no way, now that they knew the cause, that the Autobots, with all their alien expertise, could not reverse the accident. He couldn't accept that.

"We may know that," said Ratchet. "But, as I was saying, the fact that you and Bumblebee did not die was what can only be described as a miracle. Trying to make it work the same way, especially without having seen the device intact, would very likely kill you for sure."

There was a long, awkward pause. Ratchet would not meet Sam's panicked gaze. He stared down at the wreckage of the bomb, occasionally prodding a piece with a finger. When he finally spoke, each word was colored with regret, his shoulders sagging as if in defeat. "As of right now, I see no possibility of reversing the process without irreparable damage. It cannot be fixed."


	7. Thursday, 6PM  Friday, 8AM

A/N: You can thank IAmLazarus for one particular moment in this installment. She wishes the audience to know that she did make herself "wicked sick" as well. Why she wants you to know this, I have no notion.

* * *

Thursday, 6PM - Friday, 8AM

"What!"

It felt like something had broken. Like the world had tilted on its side and failed to inform him. If this life were a cartoon, he felt that little pieces of the world should be breaking apart, falling off-screen like shards of glass. He wanted to feel angry, to feel distraught, but instead, there was only a bleak numbness settling over him.

Sam felt himself reel backwards, careening into a huge, supporting hand. Despite the aid, he sat down hard, staring blankly at the ground in front of him. Judging from the shadow cast behind him, it was Optimus who had tried to steady him, and who now stood over him, as if trying to defend him from the situation itself. Sam had no doubt that, should he look up, concern would be etched into the Autobot commander's face.

He didn't look. Pity and concern would only make this more real. If he stared at one particular patch of grass long enough, it almost began to look normal. And that was good. If he looked at anyone else, he couldn't pretend.

The massive hand moved to rest briefly on his shoulder. "Sam," Optimus murmured. "Do not lose all hope. We will continue to seek a solution. Whatever it may be. We will not leave things as they are."

He was only dimly aware of a feminine voice speaking up, somewhere in front of him. When it died away, the tread of great feet told him the Autobots had taken their leave, perhaps to continue their meaningless debate over their options.

As far as Sam was concerned, they had none. He was going to spend the rest of his life as one of them. And who knew how long that could be? With this body, and from what Optimus had let on, they were all centuries old at least—maybe even millennia in the cases of Optimus and Ironhide. He could be facing all eternity as a transforming, metal robot, while everyone, everything around him withered and fell to time.

What was he supposed to do in the face of all this? No reaction seemed appropriate—they each had too much shock, or not enough grief. He didn't even know what to begin to feel…

Until a touch registered on his hand, sprawled at his side when he'd collapsed. He turned slowly, listlessly, barely registering the human form looking up at him.

"Sam? Hey… They… they went to talk to Bee. Alone."

He blinked, confused. He knew that voice—would know it no matter what. But it was thick with emotion, half-choking on the words it spoke. Never had he heard that voice break like that.

"Sam, say something!" Small hands pounded against metal, teetering on the verge of panic. "Answer me!"

"What the hell am I supposed to say!" he all but exploded. He hadn't meant to.

"I don't know! Just fucking let me know you're not dead!" She was just as angry. He couldn't blame her. All the same, her apparent lack of understanding irked him.

"I don't think that's going to be a problem for a while, unless something starts shooting at me!"

At this Sam slammed a massive fist into the ground. The sudden burst of frustration startled Mikaela enough to make her start moving backwards. "Wait! Don't go, I'm sorry." His body sagged, all anger drained out in a sudden rush. Sam didn't speak for a while, apparently gathering his thoughts. "This is just so fucking scary," he murmured. "It should be awesome, but it's not. I'm not even hungry anymore. It's like I'm living a million miles away."

Mikaela slowly came towards him again, and, gingerly rested a hand on his knee, as if trying to find a place her diminutive fingers could grip in a gesture of comfort. Finding none, she settled for keeping in physical contact with Sam, though, it was obviously a poor substitute. "Look… I… I'm sorry," she said. "I guess I'm scared too. I think even those guys are a little freaked." Her free hand gestured vaguely in the direction of the elder Autobot conference, marked by three massive silhouettes against the sunset.

"Yeah…"

Neither of them could think of what to say after that. What did a person say in this situation? Any reassurances she could have offered seemed flat, useless, given the circumstances. Privately, Sam was glad she didn't try. He wouldn't have been able to give her the answers she wanted to hear. They remained in silence until twilight fell over the homestead, trying to think of what to say to one another—of what wouldn't sound completely fake. As the light faded, Sam's vision changed to compensate, substituting the blue darkness for a pale green illumination. It would have been exciting to have night vision, if Sam had a way to be normal again. Instead, he just closed his eyes, shutting out sight altogether. Better not to see at all, than to be reminded.

"What are we going to do…?"

Hearing his words from earlier today out of Mikaela's mouth was jarring enough to make him look down. She was looking up at him, framed by the glowing porch lights. It hid her face, but not the hitch in her voice. He could feel, just barely, the way her hand tensed on the plating of his knee. If he focused on her, the glare faded, revealing her face. Upon seeing it, Sam very nearly moved to embrace her, despite the painfully apparent problems such a gesture would cause.

He'd never seen her cry. Not once. Mikaela Banes, he'd learned, was not the type of girl to go teary-eyed over the things that sent most girls into raging hysterics. She was more inclined towards frustration than tears. More than anything, he wanted to lie to her, if only to aggravate her—anger occasionally proved to be a firm barrier against grief. But despite it all, Sam couldn't bring himself to do that.

Instead, he carefully cupped a hand against her back, providing a solid wall for her to lean on. Wrapping her arms around his thumb, Mikaela did just that. She wasn't shaking, he was faintly glad to note, which could only mean she wasn't crying anymore—if she was, she was doing it silently, to keep him from finding out.

"You want the nice answer or the honest one?" he asked, making an attempt to keep his voice quiet.

She didn't hesitate. "The honest one."

"I dunno what to do," he admitted. A long silence stretched between them, and he stumbled over his next words. Even when he tried to think them through, they felt cheap. But there was nothing else he could say. "I'd like to say that we could be together no matter what, as cheesy as that sounds, but with there's no way it would ever be physical again. And, I mean, I would never expect…"

Mikaela cut him off. "I'm not going to abandon you," she snapped, some of her usual ire returning. "You don't just walk out on people you love. Especially when they need you…" Here, she trailed off, running out of steam.

There was another long pause.

"Thank you." The whisper seemed to hang in the air, and they suddenly found there was nothing else they needed to say.

* * *

"You're taking this rather well."

Seated on the ground between the huge Autobots, Bumblebee had to practically lie down to look his commander in the eye. He nodded slightly in answer. "It would do none of us any good were I to react otherwise," he replied. None of the others missed the brief, anxious glance he threw in Sam's direction.

Metal creaked as Optimus shifted his weight. "Is there really nothing we can do for them?" he asked.

The noise Ratchet made was something between a resigned sigh and a growl. "If I had the original device…" He trailed off, throwing his hands in the air, forcing Ironhide to duck under the medic's frustrated gesture. "Perhaps? I have no idea. The factors involved in the initial transfer alone were so… They could never be duplicated."

"We have to try," Bumblebee said, heaving himself to his feet. "We owe it to Sam—after all he's done."

Optimus nodded. "Would it be helpful to have a similar device to study?"

"It's a start," Ratchet admitted. However, he sounded anything but confident. "Perhaps a comparison of the two would yield more information?"

"But we can't be sure the Decepticons made more than one," Ironhide rumbled. "Knowing them, I doubt they kept a spare around."

"If that is the case, then we have no option but to personally question the maker," said Optimus. "We will have to draw Barricade out of hiding regardless."

Silence fell as the four lost themselves in thought. The question now was how exactly to force the Decepticon into the open. As things stood now, he was so well tucked away that he didn't register on anyone's scanners, despite even Optimus' best efforts. The only lead they had to his location was the site of the original bomb. However, that area was a veritable warren of caves, valleys and canyons, the sandstone rock bouncing and distorting any signal they might have picked up. It would take them thousands of hours of manual searching to even get the search area narrowed down.

"If there are no other options," Bumblebee began, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his borrowed jeans. "I believe I stand the best chance of luring him to us. If only because I defeated him so easily in our encounter."

"The problem with that is," replied Ironhide. "It won't be you we use as bait." There was a surprising tone of concern in the black Autobot's voice as he also shot a quick glance over his shoulder.

"You do not believe that he is ready for such an assignment, even if we all were there?" asked Optimus

Ironhide snorted, folding heavy arms. "Sam's being 'ready' has nothing to do with it," he said. "The boy is a liability. And we lack the time to rectify this. One or two training sessions are not enough to prepare even a true Autobot for battle. To say nothing of a human dumped into one of our bodies."

Sometime during Ironhide's speech, Bumblebee had tensed, ready to jump to Sam's defense. Before a fight could break out between his warriors, Optimus caught his eye. The commander shook his head once, and Bumblebee grudgingly kept silent. Both knew there was some truth in what Ironhide said. In his own body, Sam could very well be an asset to them. But with his obvious difficulty in adjusting to the situation, he was a danger to himself as much as everyone around him. Optimus could not fault Bumblebee for wanting to defend his friend, however, and so made no move to further reprimand the younger Autobot.

"Do you have a better alternative?" Ratchet asked skeptically. He shook his head when Ironhide moved to respond. "One that does not involve destroying the entire area we suspect him to be in?"

"I wasn't going to suggest that," Ironhide grumbled, though he shifted his weight, looking downright put out.

"Then," Optimus cut in. "It would seem that until we can decide on a safer means of locating Barricade, we will have to go with Bumblebee's plan. Though, it would be best to implement it during daylight—Sam's first day has been rough, it will take more adjustments." There was grumbling among the usual suspects, but as they had nothing besides complaints, Optimus chose to ignore them. He knelt beside Bumblebee. "Until then, you should take care of yourself, old friend." Without further explanation, he stood, a great shadow against the darkening sky—a shadow which warped and twisted, even as he issued an order. "We will patrol tonight, Ratchet, and return at dawn. There is no more you can do here. Ironhide, you are to stand guard."

Ratchet nodded to his commander, then transformed without a word. He still seemed to be deep in thought. Noticing, Ironhide rapped a hand on the top of the medic's vehicle form. "Stay alert," he grunted. "Otherwise it'll be one of us picking scrap out of you for a change."

"Do not even joke," Ratchet retorted, revving his engine in indignation. "The thought of _you_ as acting field medic…"

"Yeah, I know. So watch out."

The departing Autobots kicked up clouds of dust as they roared off. Both Ironhide and Bumblebee watched until their taillights vanished down the now-dark road. With the exception of Jazz, Bumblebee had been one of the fastest surviving Autobots, as speed was a great advantage in scouting missions. Now he was reduced to traveling at the mercy of organic muscles, rather than tireless steel and alloys. It felt as if he were traveling in slow motion, to say nothing of the feeling of uselessness that had begun to slowly emerge within him.

It had been hard enough watching his comrades, his brothers-in-arms, drive away on reconnaissance he had once grown bored with. But Ironhide, the very antithesis of the word "tact", gave him the gentlest of shoves towards the house, Bumblebee very nearly snapped at the elder Autobot. He was not too far gone to realize a physical strike would be next to useless.

"You will be safer indoors," Ironhide said simply. He glanced meaningfully towards his feet, then back towards the house.

With a curt nod, Bumblebee marched. It was hard to see in the darkness, especially with the glare coming off the porch lights, and he nearly tripped over a well-placed flowerpot. He couldn't even see Sam, though he knew the boy hadn't moved from his spot.

He hardly set foot inside when the captain cornered him, guiding him unerringly towards the kitchen. "Come on," he said. "Can't watch the kids on an empty stomach, can you?" When Bumblebee stared at him, at a loss for words, Lennox simply sat him down in a chair, then proceeded to place copious amounts of food in front of him. Everything from ice cream to spaghetti graced the dining room table. "Besides," Lennox continued, helping himself to a slice of garlic bread. "Harder to think when you eat."

_A welcome thought…_

Without another word, Bumblebee did as the captain said, doing his best to focus on the flavors instead of his predicament. Fortunately for him, such a thing wasn't hard at all—he was famished.

* * *

Mikaela had fallen asleep by the time the storm rolled in, half-draped over his palm, worn out from the day's events. The electricity in the air sent off warning bells in Sam's new systems long before it even crested the mountains in the distance. There was a damp chill to the air he'd never noticed before—probably another dubious benefit of being trapped in this body. Bolts of lightning crackled across the horizon, occasionally lighting up the entire sky and silhouetting Ironhide, still standing like an ancient statue, near the edge of the property.

Tentatively, he tried the radio. It took concentration, as if he were trying to flex a certain muscle he'd never used before. The sudden burst of sound startled him so much he nearly dropped Mikaela, and in his haste to protect her from a fall, he almost crushed her. How she slept through it all, he had no idea. She must have been more exhausted than either of them had thought.

_All I wanted to do was check the freaking weather report…_

Was this how it was going to be from now on? Always holding back from her, always barely touching her, for fear of hurting her? Logically, either of them should have moved on, found other people—should Sam's current situation have allowed for that. But her admission, and his reciprocation only a handful of hours ago would never let that happen now. It was going to take a lot to break this new formed bond, he supposed.

Thunder rumbled overhead, accompanied by a few fat drops of rain. With utmost care, he shook Mikaela, noting with concern the way her head lolled on her neck. Was he shaking her too hard? Was she all right? When she opened her eyes with a low oath, he relaxed slightly.

"It's raining," he informed her. Cautiously, he held a hand over her head, trying to shield her from the weather. "Wanna go inside?"

She nodded, stifling a yawn with one hand. "What time is it?" she asked, and slid off his palm. Her shoes made soft squelches in the wet grass.

All the while, Sam hovered over her—a living metal umbrella. "Around seven," he said, though he had no idea where the information had come from. Thinking back, he realized he'd always known the time, as it were carved into his brain every hour.

"God, I'm starving," she muttered, starting back towards the house, apparently ignoring him. Either that, or she was too groggy to acknowledge his awkward presence behind her. When she did notice him following her, she turned to stare at him, questioning.

He shrugged down at her, the motion shaking loose rainwater from his shoulders. "It's dark, it's wet 'n shit…" he said. "You could... trip or something. Wild jackalopes."

Despite herself, Mikaela laughed, the sound sending an involuntary tremor through him. He had to stop hearing her like that. It wasn't going to help anything—love wasn't going to magically swap him and Bee back into their rightful places. He just had to start registering the sound of her precious voice as… her. It was words, nothing else. He couldn't associate it with Mikaela if he wanted to survive this.

He almost followed her up onto the porch—would have followed her into the house itself had the crunch of wood under one of his too-big feet. "Shit," he swore, backpedaling.

Mikaela paused, framed in the warm light from the kitchen. There was another smile on her face, but it quickly disappeared as she watched him. "Hey… I'm…" An awkward, painful silence. "I'm gonna sleep here tonight, again, I think," she said. "Tell my mom I'm at a friend's or something…" _So I'll be here with you all night, just in case…_ She didn't say it, but they both heard it all the same.

"Yeah, okay," he said, crouching to peer under the overhang. "I'll… I'll uh, see you in the morning?"

"Okay."

Before he could say anything else, she'd ducked inside, closing the door behind her. It was better that way. He couldn't see her lean against the door, trying her best to collect herself. Part of her wanted to drop back to sleep—there, ironically enough, things felt more real than they did now.

Having regained her senses somewhat, Mikaela stepped into the living room, only to be confronted with the sight of Bumblebee, sprawled across the couch. An icepack lay over his forehead, and he had his hands drawn up over his abdomen. He looked utterly miserable. The Lennoxes were absent from the room, though the muffled sounds of a television came from somewhere else in the house.

"Bee?" Mikaela called, approaching him. She couldn't keep the fear out of her voice. What _now_? "What's wrong?"

Gingerly, he lifted the icepack from one eye. His skin was pale, greenish almost, even in the yellow lamplight. "I feel ill," he groaned, face contorting.

"What?" As far as she could recall, he had been fine all day. A stab of fear knifed its way into her spine. Maybe the switch had more consequences than they'd thought. What if it was… She forced that thought from her head. Someone would have been showing symptoms earlier than now—and, she consoled herself, Ratchet would have noticed anything amiss. "Why?"

Bumblebee slowly shook his head, the motion eliciting another low moan. "I don't know," he mumbled. "I informed Lennox… his wife instructed I… remain where I am…"

There came a dull thud from outside. Mikaela turned. Outside, Sam, apparently attracted by the sounds within, knelt as best he could, clumsily peering into the living room windows. A few were open, carrying the scent of rain inside, and their voices out. She pressed a hand to her face in an unconscious imitation of a certain Autobot leader, and kept her attention focused on Bumblebee. Not more trouble. Really, this was the last thing she, or any of the others, needed. Ratchet especially would never let her hear the end of how she let one of his charges fall ill—if illness was even a concept the Autobots understood. She reached out, moving the icepack to lay her wrist against Bumblebee's forehead.

"Maybe you ate something weird," she suggested. He didn't feel feverish.

Again, the slow shake of his head. "I did not."

She raised an eyebrow when he offered no more information than that. He must not have been too terribly sick, otherwise she was sure the adults would not have left him alone. "Well?" Mikaela prompted. "What _did_ you eat?"

"Spaghetti… soda, pickles, a sandwich," he began, pausing for breath between each item. Throughout the recitation, Mikaela could only stare, fighting for words that did not come. "Chips, bread… butter… bagels, Bugles… cereal, ice cream, and meat."

"Meat? What kind of meat?" she broke in at last. Part of her was still struggling to comprehend how he'd managed to ingest that amount of food. "There's more than one kind, Bee."

"Well," he muttered. "Apparently, I ate all the options." Again, his face contorted, toes curling as his whole body tensed with pain.

For a long moment, she couldn't say anything. "What the hell did you do that for?" she managed, sounding more exasperated than she wanted to.

Before Bumblebee could answer, Sam's voice drifted in over the storm, through an open window. "Dude, how'd you pack all that in?" he asked, confused awe plain on his face. "That's like… that's amazing. I didn't think that was even possible."

Mikaela looked back down at the suffering Autobot. His face had gone pale, aside from his cheeks, which were flushed a bright red as another spasm passed through him. Advanced race her ass—if the first thing they did out of sight of their superiors was eat themselves sick. "Bee, bathroom, now," she snapped, hauling him to his feet. When he swayed, doubling over, she supported him, marching him down the hallway. Judging from the rhythmic shaking of the house, Sam was following their progress.

"Dude," Mikaela heard him saying. "Dude, what did you do to me?"

Bumblebee didn't reply.

They barely got him to the bathroom in time. She let Bumblebee slump to the floor and, instinctively, he grabbed the sides of the toilet bowel as his borrowed form restored its disrupted balance. Trying to give him some privacy, Mikaela slumped against the wall outside, staring resolutely at the ceiling. Sam was bickering with Bumblebee through the bathroom window—demanding that Bumblebee get out of his body if the Autobot was going to "treat it like that".

"For the first time in our acquaintanceship, I really… hate you, Sam Witwicky," Bumblebee snapped back.

There was a moment of silence, and then retching again. Mikaela dropped her head down against her knees. She stayed that way for a long time, even after Bumblebee recovered enough to return to his spot on the couch. It wasn't until the house turned dark, that someone came for her. Settling Mikaela in a spare bedroom, Sarah Lennox stayed with her until the girl fell asleep.

"They'll be all right," her husband assured her. She leaned against him, and he draped an arm around her. "They've been through a lot, that's all. Just give 'em some time."

"I hope so."

* * *

The ground was soft. Not as soft as the sand. Thicker—denser. But it moved well, and yielded to its tunneling. The rain had helped—had softened the ground.

_Find the Autobots for Barricade. Spy on the Autobots for Barricade. Lure the Autobots to Barricade. To death. Let the traps kill them. Let them fall dead. Dead. Blackout dead._

It resisted the urge to chatter its agitation. That would give it away—Autobot signals were too close. Noise would be too telling, even so deep below ground. It was almost too deep. Only once had it ever gone so deep before—to heal, to _Wait until I come for you_.

But He had called. He called and Blackout went—never came back. Left it to sand and wind and Barricade. Barricade who was not its own. Not its partner. Its partner was dead, his body shattered by the organics.

_Find the Autobots. _

It slipped around a rock, rising to the surface just long enough to note the Autobot position. Water was falling from the sky and splattering over its optics and exoskeleton. An annoyance, nothing more. Big one—standing guard. Small one—near the structure, offline, recharging, _asleep_. No others. Easy to attract, easy to lure away. It went slowly, quietly, up to the surface. The ground was thick—didn't shift away like sand—made it hard to be stealthy. Its progress was slow, creeping towards the small one—_Designation: Bumblebee_—the scout that Barricade wanted dead first.

Too much concentration on stealth made it easy to forget to watch. The falling water masked the sound of the organics—_two of them, mature and juvenile males_—emerging from the structure. It froze, slowly burrowing deep to hide. The organics would alert the Autobots. That was inadvisable at this point.

Then the mature male glanced its way. One of its optics caught the organic's face. The image sent recognition sparking through its processors. It knew that organic. It had seen it, sliding across the ground, carrying a weapon.

That image had been Blackout's last transmission. That image had been its last mission.

Its logic algorithms ordered it to stay hidden. It exploded upwards out of the ground. Bits of mud and vegetation went with it. The organics stared as it skittered towards them—then the smaller one, the juvenile, ducked in front, and it dropped into a combat crouch. Again, it felt its processors reacting, recalling. It continued forward, rushing headlong to meet the organic and tear it apart. The juvenile moved too, weak little fists balled up as if to punch it.

"Bumblebee!"

The other male was shouting—the Autobots were shouting. It shuddered to a halt out of reflex. That was an Autobot designation. That was the Autobot designation for the small one!

Its hesitation was too much. The small one was advancing too fast to escape. It skittered backwards, only to be met with rounds from the small one's weapon. It fired back, but the Autobot dodged, and the missiles cracked deep fissures in the ground. The organics had fallen back as the small Autobot—_Designation??_—approached, then launched itself forward.

Such a clumsy lunge from an Autobot! It danced sideways, out of the way, but the Autobot's hand closed around its broken tail. It spun and the Autobot shouted as broken metal gouged into its palm. Before the enemy could stand, it had scuttled over the Autobot's sprawled body. It was again in position to destroy the organics. The older male would not escape again. It drew a bead on the organics—they tried to take cover and there was none to be had.

Even as it fired, something else grabbed its tail, yanking it up and away from the organics. Its weapons went off automatically, but instead of yielding flesh, they cracked into metal—into an Autobot's metal limb. It barely glimpsed the large Autobot standing over the organics before it was flung away, landing, cracking against a large tree. Its focus had been elsewhere. It hadn't noticed the big one.

It shook—chattered and shrieked—with rage. There were dents and pain all over its body. The big Autobot made no sound in response to its threat—just stood there while the other recovered, while the organics got away. That was not an option. Not again.

It charged, weaving to avoid any incoming fire. But they wouldn't fire again. Too soft, too sentimental—wouldn't destroy buildings. It stayed near the barn, waiting. The big one did not budge, just crouched, tense, weapons whirring and at the ready. One of the weapons, the left, sat lower than the other, the arm held closer to the body.

When the attack came, it was nearly ready. But it did not expect the direction, nor the ferocity of the attack. It had been watching the big one.

It did not expect _Prime_.

* * *

It was the sound of cannon fire more than it was Decepticon signal that sent Optimus and Ratchet speeding back to the homestead. As they crested the hill, they increased their pace—a high-pitched chatter accompanied the low whirr of a familiar pair of cannons. Both could see Scorponok crouching before the barn, just a few yards from where Ironhide and Sam stood protectively before the house, engaged in full battle-mode. A quick scan showed two male humans taking cover behind them. Craters and furrows scored the yard, but there did not seem to be any major damage, save for one huge tree, cracked nearly in half. Judging from lack of smoke and smoldering wreckage, the battle could not have been going on for long.

_And, somehow, Ironhide has already managed to damage to himself, _ Ratchet muttered, putting on still more speed.

_See to Bumblebee and Captain Lennox, _ Optimus ordered.

They parted without another word. Without bothering to slow his speed, Optimus transformed, throwing himself into a rolling tackle that landed him atop Scorponok with a suddenness that stunned the Decepticon. It chattered and squealed, but he did not release it, even when the tail whipped about his head, broken, jagged point ripping across his faceplate. If its tail were of any judge of its recent escapades, the Decepticon had been beaten quite a bit of late, yet it possessed a great amount of fight.

It shook, weapons charging to fire. Optimus flexed an arm, allowing the blade to emerge. He stabbed downwards, slicing through metal and wires until the claw and attached weaponry fell to the ground, smoking. Writhing, Scorponok let out a rattle. The tail came around again—its last line of defense. It cracked against Optimus' side, knocking him off balance. Before it struck again, he had twisted, pinning the screeching, shivering thing beneath him.

"Ratchet!" Optimus called over his shoulder in the general direction of the medic. Mud from the rain flew into his face as the twisting creature searched for an exit.

The reply was prompt, as expected. "Yes, sir!" A quick, heavy tread announced Ratchet's arrival.

"Bug the bug," the Autobot commander growled.

With a terse nod, Ratchet reached to his side and pulled out a small disk. He deftly touched a few spots on the plating, frowning down at it. Instantly, it came to life with a muted _ping_. He waited for a moment, then found his opening. In one swift move, he attached it to the arachnid's side, just missing another wild swoop of its tail.

"On!" he barked.

At this, Optimus quickly shifted the direction of the creature away from the house. After a swift kick, he released it. Shrieking, it hurriedly burrowed away while Optimus followed it in a half hearted grab to give the illusion of escape. Both Autobots watched until the smooth curve of earth that was Scorponok disappeared over the hill.

"Do you think he noticed you tagged him?" Optimus asked. The rain quietly drummed against his faceplate as it slid back into place.

"Not a chance," Ratchet replied, shaking his head. "With the pain it was in, I wouldn't be surprised if it shut down its censors entirely just to tune it out. Besides," he added in a huff. "Skilled medical officers are undetectable in their work."

Optimus gave a short chuckle, but then heard some movement behind him. He turned. "Is everyone alright?" he asked his warriors, as well as their companions.

He almost didn't need to ask. Sam was almost bouncing, visibly vibrating with energy. Beside him, Ironhide simply nodded, the gesture intended to hide the wince as his shoulder moved with it. At his feet, Lennox and Bumblebee appeared soaked and muddied, but unharmed. The captain even gave a slight wave up at the Autobot leader. Bumblebee said nothing, he refused to even look up. A worrisome observation. Optimus made a mental note to speak with the scout at the next possible opportunity.

"Holy shit! Optimus, what the hell was that?" Sam was asking. His faceplate flicked up and down, as if he were unsure whether or not they were still in combat. "I mean, since when do you guys come in animal shapes? Especially giant bugs." He was fairly dancing now, careful to keep away from the humans at his feet. "I mean, a large cat of some sort sure, but that was a freakin' scorpion! Do you realize how many levels of wrong that is?"

"More levels than you know," Lennox muttered, wiping a streak of mud off his forehead.

At least Sam appeared to be recovering from his shock. Although, Optimus would have preferred a slightly quieter recovery to the vibrating, chattering Autobot-form before them. "Scorponok," he replied simply. "It was partner to Blackout."

"And we're letting it get away?" the captain asked, looking the Autobot commander in the eye. He was pointing after the Decepticon, his body tense with suppressed anger. "We're letting that _thing_ get away?"

"For now," Optimus admitted.

"Great. That's fucking great," Lennox snapped. "So what happens after you guys take off? Huh? It just comes back and takes out my whole family? Is there a reason why we're suddenly letting the bad guys go, or were you just looking to mix it up?"

"Captain, I can assure you—"

But Lennox cut Optimus off with another round. The Autobots found themselves vaguely grateful the man was not in possession of a weapon. "You don't get it," he said. "That thing? That thing tore up an entire village to get me, and get my guys. It's still alive, and now it knows where I live—where my wife and my kid live. That makes sense to you?"

"We are tracking it," Ratchet spoke up. He was staring into space, optics flickering as if he were reading. "With the tag in place, we will not lose its signal, no matter where it goes."

Lennox looked ready to speak again. This time, it was Optimus who interrupted. "And, once we locate it," he began, looking straight at the captain. "We will finish this. Your home and your family will not come to harm."

This seemed to reassure him. Rubbing at the mud streaking his clothing, Lennox sighed, breaking eye contact with the Autobot commander. "Fine," he said. "I… I'm going in to change." He glanced over at Bumblebee, who had not moved. The Autobot was staring down at his very human hands, looking far more troubled than the captain had seen. "Hey, Bumblebee," he called. When the Autobot looked up, he gestured toward the house, attempting a grin. It came out half-hearted at best. "Come on. The girls are probably worried sick. And we both need a shower."

Bumblebee's eyes dropped back down, and he shook his head. "I will be fine," he murmured. "Give my apologies to Mikaela, please."

Before anyone could stop him, he had turned, and walked off towards the barn, alone. Optimus hesitated before silently accompanying his warrior, treading lightly beside the sullen, small form. Sam made an attempt to follow, but was blocked by Ratchet, who grabbed his hand with a disparaging sigh at the damage from Scorponok's tail.

"Hey! Come on! It's a cut, Ratchet, let go!" the teen said, struggling in the medic's hold. "Dude, no. Something's wrong with Bee! Let go!"

His struggles only awarded him a stern glare and a quick, painless shot with an alien welding torch. Ratchet said nothing until the job—apparently the Autobot version of stitches—was done. By the time he'd finished, both Optimus and Bumblebee had vanished into the scrub forest. Irritated, Sam rounded on the medic. It had been an obvious setup, and he'd fallen for it.

"What's the deal?" he snapped. "He's my friend. I can't just sit here."

Ratchet shrugged, not turning his attention away from his examination. His patient stood still, more or less, as he worked, studying the scores from Scoroponok's weapons that marked Ironhide's left shoulder. It was only when he straightened the limb that the black Autobot swore a vivid streak of static and pulses, all but jerking his arm away from the medic's grasp. The reaction gave him no ground, as Ratchet promptly took it back, and began soldering the worst of the scrapes.

"What the hell's going on?" Sam all but shouted. They were ignoring him, which did not help ease his mounting frustration. He turned away from the group, fully intending to march after the departed duo. "I should go and find him—"

This produced a reaction, finally. "You are remarkably dense for a life form comprised mostly of water," the medic snorted.

At their feet, Lennox made a choking noise. It sounded suspiciously like a smothered laugh. The exchange made Sam freeze in his tracks, and turn back around. "What's that supposed to mean?"

No answer was immediately forthcoming. He waited, half-turned, considering trying to coerce the information out of them, but both Autobots easily outweighed him. Not to mention their combat training. "Let Optimus speak with him," said Ratchet at length. "He knows what he's doing. And, not to be offensive, Sam, but seeing you is not something Bumblebee should see at the moment—would you hold _still_?" The last was directed, with an exasperated hand gesture, at the patient. "Do you want me to fuse the joint?"

"Leave it alone then," Ironhide growled. "Doesn't hurt and it's not broken—leave it."

"Fine. But don't complain to me if and when it blows up in your face."

"Why would it do that?"

There was some further back-and-forth between the two, but Sam didn't pay attention. He hadn't done anything to upset Bumblebee, had he? Sure, his involvement in the skirmish with the scorpion hadn't gone exactly as planned, but no one had died. Or even been seriously injured. From his perspective, things had gone relatively well! There shouldn't have been a reason for the Autobot scout to run off like that…

Should there?

* * *

"Are you injured?"

"No, sir."

"Good. We were concerned."

There was silence between the two Autobots for a time. Rain still came down, but it had faded to a slow drizzle, so that even the _ping _of it against Optimus' metal skin was muted.

They had found a low hill, overlooking the farm. It was far enough away from the settlement to where even the Autobots looked small and the humans were nearly indistinguishable dots against the torn, green grass. One of said humans—most likely Lennox, it was hard to tell at the distance—had retreated inside. Another—probably Mikaela—had emerged and headed unerringly for Sam. Bumblebee took it in without a word, leaning against a rocky outcropping, arms resting against his knees. A few feet away, his leader had settled himself into a crouch, so as to be nearer Bumblebee's level.

"Sir?"

Optimus looked down. "Yes?"

"Permission to… speak freely?" asked Bumblebee. He was staring at his hands, half hidden by his shirtsleeves. When he spoke, his voice was abnormally monotone, devoid of the usual cheer that characterized the younger Autobot.

It was a definite cause for concern.

Throughout their long association, Optimus had never known Bumblebee to despair. Even when faced with the destruction of his vocal processor, he had forged on ahead, doggedly seeking out alternate methods of communication. Never once had he given up on a mission, or fled from combat. Then again, never had Bumblebee been in a situation such as this. Injuries he could recover from. Battles he could win. There was no surefire cure for this malady, and no enemy to defeat.

Preparing himself for the worst, the Autobot leader nodded. "You should know by now you have no need to ask my permission," he said.

Bumblebee's human hands clenched tightly, balling up the fabric of his pants. Once again, words were a long time coming. Optimus waited, still and patient as the stones his warrior leaned against. "Your orders were to be his guardian," Bumblebee said, his voice low. "I can no longer perform that function. I failed to do so today."

Optimus let the silence hang between them, deep and dark, while he mulled over his warrior's words. He could recall no such instance of failure. However, he and Ratchet had arrived in the middle of the conflict, increasing the likelihood they'd missed some key event. "And your reasoning behind that sentiment?" the commander asked, his tone carefully curious.

Slowly, hesitantly, the story came out. "Scorponok was attacking. I attempted to counterattack in defense of Sam and the captain…" said Bumblebee. The monotone of his voice occasionally wavered as he tried to keep himself under control. "I forgot I was not… myself. And was unable to stop the attack." He briefly unclenched a fist to rub his throat, as if the words pained him. "I apologize for my failure, sir."

It was apparent to Bumblebee, from Optimus' lack of immediate response, that his leader was having difficulty finding an adequate answer. Not that Bumblebee could particularly blame him. What did one say to a comrade who was no longer able to perform his duty?

He had been angry at first, that the others had been forced to rescue him. He was a capable soldier. Nothing short of critical injury kept him from battle, or duty. The others shouldn't have to rescue him—particularly Sam. Their doing so today only reinforced the growing feeling of helplessness he'd begun to feel. There was nothing he could do for them, not in this body. How was he supposed to protect his friends and comrades with such small, fragile limbs?

"Bumblebee…"

For the first time since their trek up to this lonely, isolated place, he looked Optimus in the eye—even though he had to crane his neck to do so. "Yes, sir?" he ventured.

"This situation is something not one of us was prepared for, and we are all having difficulty acclimating," Optimus continued. He appeared to be choosing his words carefully. "You cannot expect yourself to fill the same role as you did prior to the accident—we do not, and neither should you." The last was added as Bumblebee opened his mouth to protest. "However…" Optimus tilted his head back, examining the slowly darkening clouds above. Their relief from the rain was to be short-lived, it seemed.

"However, this does not mean you are useless to our cause," said the Autobot leader. "For example, there is much we can learn from your interactions with the humans—interactions that will be much smoother in your current form." He met Bumblebee's stare. "Your role will have to be changed, but rest assured that it will not be rendered unnecessary." A slight chuckle escaped Optimus. "At the very least, you could take over Sam's training."

The younger Autobot was nearly speechless. "Thank you, sir," he managed, as one of Optimus' huge fingers came to rest on his shoulder, a gesture of reassurance, of benediction. There was nothing else he could really say. Change was inevitable, and did not always happen for the better. His brooding, while also inevitable, would do them all little good. There was a battle to be fought. Let the worry come later.

He took a deep breath, drawing in the rain-scrubbed air. "Unless I am mistaken, I believe you will be following Scorponok fairly soon?" he asked. It was time to change the subject, he decided.

Optimus nodded. "And I will understand if you do not wish to accompany us, Bumblebee," he said. "All of us would agree, under the circumstances."

This time, Bumblebee did not hesitate to respond. "Barricade may have something that can prove Ratchet wrong about Sam and I," he said. A vague smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. "If so, I do not want to miss Ratchet's reaction. That would be a crime."

Optimus allowed himself a real laugh. "Agreed," he said with a slow shake of his head. He rose, heading back the way they'd come, pausing occasionally to make sure his scout was able to keep up. Bumblebee was jogging, but showed no intention of asking for a slowing of pace. After all of the concern of today, Optimus would take any encouraging signs he could find.

At least now, he was free to worry over what exactly they would find during the coming confrontation.

* * *

A/N Take 2: Appologies for Scorponok's bit being hard to read. He's a pain in the ass to write for. Especially post-Blackout. Having just read Foster's Ghosts Of Yesterday, it was somewhat easier to get a picture of him. The book puts him and Blackout in a much more symbiotic relationship than Barricade and Frenzy. It even has Blackout, and I quote, "streak across space as if his interior systems were on fire" to rescue the bug. So if anyone's wondering why Scorp is reacting rather insane compared to Barricade in terms of partner-death, that's why. End note.

* * *

Note Take 3: What the hell happened to the formatting down here?

* * *


	8. Friday, 8AM to 12PM

8.

Friday, 8AM to 12PM

Snarling, Barricade flung the wounded Scorponok away, taking only minimal satisfaction from the crash the other's body made against the ground.

"Your orders were to find the Autobots! Find them and lure them into the traps!" he roared. "Not lead them here! You fool!"

In answer, the scorpion-formed Decepticon screeched back at him, slamming its remaining claw into the floor. It refused to be cowed this time, waving its tail as if it still possessed the stinging blade, and chattering in a poor imitation of language.

Normally, Barricade would have paid the noise no mind, but in the confined space of their new hideaway, it echoed painfully in his receptors. It was made entirely of stone and metal, the doors at either end suggesting that, at one time, vehicles had been housed here. The overhead lighting was a harsh white—the generators still active.

Following his idea the previous day, he'd moved their camp deeper into the network of canyons and gorges that dotted the desert. It wasn't hard to find a suitable location there. Humans had abandoned all sorts of research structures over the years, and as much as Barricade loathed relying on the primitive things, he had come to the grudging admittance that they did provide decent cover. Had they taken a cave, they would have had to share it with all manner of organic lifeforms that would have taken far too long to exterminate before beginning serious work.

So, instead, he had commandeered an old bunker, tucked away into a canyon bottom. Barricade had no notion of what the humans could have been doing with such a facility, nor did he particularly care. Such a design would have been exceedingly detrimental for the beacon he had designed, were it not for a series of corridors snaking throughout the canyon wall, to emerge in a smaller, more discreet station above. The smaller station was high enough to provide adequate boost to the signal, and the confusing maze leading to it was enough of a puzzle in itself that he hadn't needed to bother trapping it.

In fact, it was the one section of the entire area that lacked said traps. Barricade had not survived as long as he had through thoughtlessness. Alone, he stood no chance against the combined forces of the Autobots, even with Scorponok providing rather dubious backup. But with the smaller Decepticon leading them in across a pre-determined, well-thought out path, their numbers would be whittled down to a more manageable level.

At least, that was the plan. Scorponok's sudden, shrieking, arrival threw the carefully orchestrated plan out the window. Its pain blinded it to the disc attached to its exoskeleton—the disc which was even now revealing the exact location of their base. There would be no need for the Autobots to work their way along the route Barricade had chosen, and subsequently trapped, thanks to the chattering fool. And, should they attempt to remove it, it would only tighten its grip on the Decepticon's metal flesh.

"What possessed you to think you could return here?" he snapped. "Those were not your orders!"

As senseless as it was to verbally berate Scorponok, Barricade felt it helped him keep from bashing the worthless creature's skull in. Limited though its skills were, its smaller size and burrowing ability did prove itself practical in the field. And Barricade had no desire to waste his limited resources.

He turned away, pondering his options. The traps had already been laid. How was he to lure the Autobots to them now?

Something slammed into his com-lines, wrapping around them in an interface he hadn't experienced since Frenzy's death. Images forced their way into his neural network—the little nuisance Bumblebee, accompanied by a strong sense of _Not-Autobot_ and confusion. He saw the entire fight through eight eyes, heard the puny humans yelling at the Boy—at _Ladiesman, _Witwicky—yelling an Autobot designation?

_Yelling Bumblebee…? Why…?_

And then the contact vanished as forcefully as it had arrived. Barricade fought down the urge to stagger, as the sudden release left him a bit dazed, and slammed a fist against Scorponok for good measure. How long had it been keeping that particular little secret from him? A few punches would show it never to hide such things from its superior again.

Of course, this new information did him little good if he could not do something with it. And in order to do something with it, he would have to understand it. The images were confusing at best, especially after Prime tackled Scorponok. But the feeling of "not-Autobot", and the image of the flesh-creatures calling _Ladiesman_ by an Autobot designation stuck in his processor. He gathered that Scorponok was convinced that Bumblebee was somehow no longer a part of the Autobot faction. That was impossible. Wasn't it?

Could the other Decepticon simply be addled by pain? Were the humans attempting some sort of asinine tactic to confuse their adversaries?

The latter was ruled out as unlikely. They simply weren't intelligent enough to pull off such a task. On the other hand, Scorponok hadn't noticed the tracking disc practically wedged into its side, so it was possible its memory banks were faulty.

It was a puzzle, that much he was certain of. The only other thing he could decide on for sure was that something was amiss with Bumblebee. Out of reflex, his clawed hands flexed into fists. The more malfunctions the Autobots ran into, the better for him.

"Get over here," he growled. "Follow me."

Without further explanation, he transformed, wheels spinning up clouds of sand and dust as he tore out of the bunker. The intolerable _ping_ of the Autobot tracking beacon informed him Scorponok was not far behind. Good.

At least one of the traps could still be counted on to remove a few of the meddling fools, if only due to certain geological features, and help from Barricade. He grinned inwardly. In some way, Scorponok's failure was a boon. This way, at least, he could experience the satisfaction of his alt-mode crushing into vulnerable Autobot armor.

* * *

By the time Optimus and Bumblebee returned to the house, the things had settled back into a vague sense of normalcy. Even some of the patches of scored earth were being filled in by both Autobot and human. 

Bumblebee attempted to lend a hand as well, but strong arms pulled him away from the task. Hauling him inside, Lennox tossed Bumblebee another pair of extra clothes from around the house. The Autobot stared down at the over-sized clothes that now lay on the bathroom floor with him.

"I have to change them again?" he asked, nudging the cloth with a careful toe.

"Unless you like being covered in muck," the captain informed him. "In which case Sarah says you're sleeping outside. Besides, you'll get sick if you stay wet."

"This may become quite tiring."

"Tell me about it," Lennox said, more to himself probably, as he swung the door shut for him to get changed.

The captain continued down the hall, entering the kitchen with a yawn-slurred "good morning", as if nothing life-threatening had occurred. It was better that way. Even with an alien robot war going on in her backyard, Sarah would be far less concerned if he kept his own fears under wraps. She was upstairs at the moment, presumably caring for Annabelle, since he'd fielded the last diaper change.

Mikaela had of course woken up with all the noise. She was now seated at the kitchen counter, a mug of coffee cradled in her hands. Yet, her attention was focused elsewhere, on the conference of giants visible just outside the window, half hidden by a curtain of rain.

Exhausted though she was, she hadn't allowed herself to go to back to sleep until after Bumblebee had returned from his talk with Optimus. Not that she had had the opportunity for sleep anyway, since Sam was still reveling in his assist, half-worrying about any wrong he had committed against his comrade. Once the now-diminutive Autobot had returned, a simple pat on his metallic shin had reassured him that there was nothing to worry about.

"Didn't hear you come back in," he said, moving to pour his own caffeine. "What's happening out there?"

"I don't know for sure," Mikaela admitted. "They sent me back in once the waterfall started up." One hand waved vaguely in the direction of the pouring rain. "I think they're talking about how to kill the giant bug."

He snorted, replacing the pot back into the machine. "About time," Lennox muttered into the mug, moving to peer out the window.

From what he could see, the Autobots had taken their conversation into the dubious shelter of the trees. It was almost comical to see the giants huddled under the rather sparse vegetation—almost. Lennox found his mind wandering into darker places. How was he going to tell Sarah he was going, once again, into battle? Sure, they both had to accept the fact that his leave of absence was going to end, and he'd be shipped back out to the blistering, foreign, desert. But this was different. He wasn't doing recon patrols in the back of a helicopter. He was going to be taking on the Decepticons again—aliens without mercy, without any sense of humanity.

His wife was, understandably, not going to take this well.

"Sarah can take you two to school today," he told her. "You're going to be late as hell, but… since when are teenagers always on time?"

He could feel her eyes boring into the back of his head—her death-glare was effective, even at her age. Slowly, he turned, raising an eyebrow at the scowl she wore.

"Problem?" he asked.

"We're going with them."

Good God, these kids were stubborn. "Look," Lennox began, holding up a placating hand. "You saw those things—hell, you see the damn Autobots every day. They're huge. They're made of metal." Now that placating hand jabbed its owner in the chest. "We're small. We're made of definitely not-metal-bits." He shook his head. "It's too dangerous, even if one of you isn't… y'know."

"Optimus has not ordered me to stay."

For a moment, the new voice threw Lennox. It was too forceful to be coming from Bumblebee—wasn't it? He turned, a dozen reasons to keep them at the house, where they were safe, on his lips, but when his eyes met the Autobot's, he found he couldn't voice them. Those were not the eyes of a teenager, or even of the careful, protective creature he'd known. They were too old, too hard—the eyes of a fellow soldier who has seen too much in too short a time.

Who was he to say no to that?

Setting his coffee down on the counter, Lennox leaned heavily against it, only half-listening to Bumblebee's continued speech. Soldier or no, the thought of letting that fragile body into combat against who-knew-what… it bothered him more than he cared to admit.

"If anyone should be remaining behind, Captain, it is you—and, logically, Mikaela." You could almost hear the sardonic smile in his voice. "I doubt there will be any towing trucks available."

Lennox saw Mikaela shoot Bumblebee one of her glares, and found himself joining in. "Hell no," he snapped. "You and me, we go. I don't like it, but we're going—I'm not letting you go wandering off into active combat, in that body, without trained backup."

"You have no weaponry," said the Autobot, raising an eyebrow. "And have much more to lose, should you not return, than I."

That was not entirely untrue. Lennox had a small revolver—it had been a gift—locked up in box out in the garage. But he sincerely doubted a .38 could do any noticeable damage to one of the hulking Decepticons. Especially since army-issue rifles hadn't even dented the small one—and since the military was not particularly fond of handing out its hideously expensive sabot rounds to soldiers on leave.

"Fine. Y'know what? Go ask them," he muttered. "Maybe they'll knock some sense into you kids." He pushed himself out of his position at the counter, and headed towards the stairs, massaging his temples. "I'll be out in a bit."

"Where are you going, Captain?" Bumblebee asked his retreating back.

"Upstairs," he replied, around a heavy sigh. "I gotta break the news to my wife."

A short time later, the three were assembled in the shelter of the porch, under the skeptical gaze of the Autobot forces. Of the group, Lennox was the only one armed. Judging from the expressions of their robotic observers, that was a fact not lost on any one of them.

"They would be in too much danger," Ironhide was saying, all but glowering at the three. "Sam included," he added.

"Hey!"

None of them acknowledged the teen's indignant shout. Bumblebee came forward, looking up at his commander. "Sir, you did not order me to stay here," he said. "I believe I can be an asset to the mission still.

"And, I've got a bone to pick with that bug," Lennox said. "I owe it for all the shit it put me and my guys through!" He paused, then put on an expression that was the very definition of injured masculine pride. "Plus, it wrecked my yard."

"I doubt very much your weapon will be able to penetrate even Scroponok's defenses," Ironhide informed the captain, who promptly offered to shoot the weapons specialist in demonstration.

Optimus had been silent the whole debate, taking in the three gathered on the porch. With a sound very like a sigh, he shook his head slowly. "Should I forbid you to come, I have a feeling you would only follow in secret," he said. "More so should we leave Sam behind."

When they nodded ascent, he continued. "In that case, I would much rather have you where we can keep you in sight," Optimus said. He passed a hand over his eyes briefly, as if regretting what he was about to say. "I will allow you to accompany us, on the condition you will remain with Sam." His voice turned hard, and there was no doubt in anyone's mind that his next words were an order of the utmost weight. "Should the Decepticons target you, you are to retreat with all speed."

Both Bumblebee and Lennox saluted, while the teens simply nodded again. With that settled, the three elder Autobots transformed on some silent cue, while Sam waited for the three on the porch.

"You guys ready for this?" he asked as they approached. He tried to sound braver than he actually felt. Autobot body or no, he was going into battle—something for which both he and the veterans felt he was woefully unprepared for. This was not running like hell down a street, he knew. This time, if things went wrong, he might very well end up being the one providing the cover fire—if he could figure out how to shoot straight.

Lennox shrugged, his face betraying only tension, no nerves. Bumblebee wore a similar expression. Only Mikaela looked the same way he felt. She had her arms wrapped around herself, fingers tight on the sleeves of the thick canvas jacket she'd borrowed from the captain. For once, he did not try to reach down and comfort her. Somehow, the realization saddened him.

"Hey, kid! You going to just stand there or are we going to move out?"

Sam woke at that shout, and, glancing down, saw the captain gesturing in the direction of the others. "They look like they're waiting on us," he said. "Get to it."

"It's a delicate process," Sam retorted. "Gimme a minute, all right?"

Even without something shooting at him, he managed to complete the transformation. In truth, he'd done so a bit hesitantly, as the thought of transporting people _inside _what was technically his body was an experience Sam was in no hurry to have. Nevertheless, he opened his doors, barely missing Lennox's knees by virtue of timing and the captain's reflexes.

He tried not to focus on them as they climbed in—but he knew he was squirming. It was especially bad when Mikaela climbed into the backseat. He felt every casual brush of her hand, every nudge of her hips and feet. It was the strangest, and one of the most unpleasant, sensations he'd ever felt.

His passengers had only just settled themselves when the order came over the radio, startling Sam most of all.

"_Autobots,"_came the voice of Optimus Prime. _"Roll out."_

There didn't seem to be a particular order at first. Optimus took the lead, while the other two veterans hung back, allowing Sam to slip up behind the commander. Ratchet filed in behind him, and Ironhide took the rear. The fleet of vehicles took a moderate pace, wheels churning up mud, until they reached land more suitable for speed. It was an old road, winding past the Lennox property and out into the desert beyond.

Here, wheels ground against ill-used asphalt, spraying rainwater onto windshields that had no need for clearing. Their pace increased to something just above any posted limit on this side of the Atlantic. Desert vegetation was little more than blurs past the windows. Voices flickered across Sam's radio. Judging from the lack of reactions from his passengers, he was the only one to hear them.

"_Watch the spray." _

"_You're already wet, stop complaining—and back off. Are you trying to cause a collision?"_

"_If you'd go faster, I wouldn't have to." _

Before he could listen to the two behind him any further, Bumblebee broke into his concentration by rapping on what Sam thought was the dashboard. "You took that turn too hard," he said.

"Hey, forget you," Sam snapped back. His voice echoed weirdly in the interior. "I took the turn just fine."

"Well sure," the Autobot replied. "If you want to get us killed."

"I'm sure that will happen in my hard-as-nails frame," he grumbled, the sarcasm in his voice almost palpable.

"I can be damaged. Especially, if you keep riding the break like you do."

"Who's riding it? I've hardly used it." Even so, Sam eased off on the part of him he figured had to be the brake.

"Then the emergency break is still on or you're stuck between gears."

A pause. The other two passengers wore similar expressions. Mikaela had her head in her hands, while Lennox's gaze remained, determinedly, out the window.

"Bee?" Sam asked, finally breaking the silence.

"Yes?"

"Bite me."

Bumblebee moved to respond, but Mikaela cut him off. Between their bickering, her nervousness, and the rain pounding down on the roof of her boyfriend-turned-Camaro, she was going to go up the wall if something didn't distract her soon. As if anything could distract her from the fact she was riding in what was once a person she knew fairly intimately. With Bumblebee it had been different. He was…_Bumblebee._ There was little differentiation between him and the car he often became. She felt uncomfortable, to say the least. And the knowledge they were driving towards another battle wasn't particularly helpful in dispelling that discomfort.

"Sam?" she asked, leaning forward. The car jumped slightly, as if it had hit a bump. "Can you… turn on the radio?"

"No way," the captain cut in. "I don't want the kid multitasking. I like living, thanks."

Despite the captain's refusal, the dials flicked back and forth. Static blared, intermixed with bits and pieces of human voices. They didn't settle on any particular station for quite some time. And when they did, a collective groan of irritation filled the cab.

"_If you'll be my Dixie chicken  
I'll be your Tennessee lamb  
And we can walk together  
Down in Dixie land!"_

Lennox reached for the dials, trying to turn it off manually, even as the knobs frantically twisted away. Bumblebee tried to drown out the noise with shouted orders to shut it off. Mikaela was the only helpful one, content to sit back with her hands over her ears until the sounds of Garth Brooks clicked themselves off of their own accord.

"Sorry! Sorry!"

Pressing his head against the window, Lennox only sighed. "Let's just keep things quiet from now on, okay?"

Few words were exchanged between passengers, and between Autobots, as the desert cliffs and canyons enfolded across the horizon. The road dwindled to little more than a rough track as it was swallowed up by the rough terrain, forcing them to slow their pace enough to cause complaints from the Autobot bringing up the rear. They climbed slowly up the side of a canyon, winding and twisting their way along a boulder-strewn path.

"What are we supposed to be looking for anyway?" Lennox wondered aloud. He squinted out into the rain. "A big flag or something?"

"You're asking me?" Sam asked.

He did not respond. Sure, the kid was just trying to cope. But his method left a lot to be desired. He would have gone easier on him, had they still been back at the house. There, at least, you could get some privacy. Out here, it was like being trapped.

"Optimus will inform us if he encounters anything," Bumblebee said. Like Lennox he was staring out the window, as if trying to memorize the bleak terrain they were passing through.

So they were to sit and wait until something happened. Great. He could deal with that, even if he didn't like it. Looking out the window didn't even help pass the time anymore. The ground to their left dropped off sharply, forming a steep canyon. If he looked that way, he was sure to imagine what would happen should Sam's wheels slip on the wet, slimy mud that made up the track.

The entire car rocked, as if something had shaken the ground out from under it. Lennox spun in his seat, just in time to see the rock face above them start to crumble. Even from this distance, the thick, scorched scent of an explosion hung in the air.

"Freaking hell!" Sam was yelling, rightly frightened.

"Move, kid!" he shouted, instinctively slamming his foot down on the accelerator.

"Ow! Hey! I am!"

Sam-the-Camaro shot forward, and would have driven straight up Optimus' hitch, had Optimus not sped up himself. The Autobot leader was barking orders over the radio, and the spinning lights of a Search and Rescue hummer were cutting through the smoky, rain-filled air. It was chaos. Lennox's instincts screamed at him to take cover, to return fire at whatever the hell was raining rocks and debris down on them. When he looked behind them, over Mikaela's head, all he could see was the Ratchet's grille as the medic practically shoved them out of the danger zone.

Another explosion rocked the hillside, accompanied by the sound of unfamiliar gunfire. "Get down!" Lennox snapped, reaching back to nearly shove Mikaela down below the windows. Bumblebee had ducked instinctively, as any soldier would have.

"_Move!"_came Ironhide's voice.

Cannon rapport echoed from behind them. Ratchet's grille suddenly disappeared from the rear window, replaced by a transformed black truck, firing into the oncoming rocks above them. The medic reappeared beside them, driving between them and the canyon edge.

Later, Lennox was never completely sure what happened. He saw a hail of—what he assumed were—bullets rake up the ground before tearing into a distracted Ironhide's shoulder. Without the cannon fire to clear them, rocks rained down, blocking his view. At some point, Ratchet was behind them again, brake-lights flashing. He felt Sam slam on his own brakes, only to be shouted at by his passengers. The Camaro rocketed forward, bypassing even Optimus.

By the time the captain looked back, all he could see was a solid wall of rock. Neither medic nor weapons specialist was anywhere to be seen.

Optimus did not slow until he was certain the explosions had ceased. And Sam kept going until ordered to stop. Only then did he hit the brakes and come to a stop, metal body shaking, near the Autobot leader. A glance around the interior showed Mikaela to be in a similar state, her face white and drawn. Bumblebee's hand was clenched around the armrest so tightly the bones in his hand showed yellow through the skin. He was staring back the way they'd come, horrified.

Beside them, Optimus swiftly transformed, striding over to the new barrier. It was easily bigger than he was, and looked as if half the hillside had shifted to block his path. It could take even an Autobot hours to move it. Such an observation did not bode well for the warriors stuck on the other side—even if Ratchet's signal was still coming in loud and clear.

"Ratchet?" he radioed. "Can you hear me?"

"Perfectly," Ratchet replied around what humans would have called a cough. He sounded indignant, but intact. "When the dust isn't clogging up my vents!"

"Is Ironhide with you?" Optimus asked. "I can't get a signal from him."

The pause on the other end was enough of an answer. "Stay where you are," he ordered. "It will take time, but we can move enough of this rock aside to get to you both—"

Ratchet cut him off. "We don't have time. If I am here, you won't be able to track Scorponok," he grumbled. "Track Barricade—and hurry, he's already retreating. I will remain here until I can locate Ironhide. Then, we will join you."

Optimus didn't answer for a moment. His comrade was right. Barricade's signal was there, but rapidly approaching the edge of his scanner's radius. If they hesitated now, they might never find the Decepticon again. "You know I do this with no small reservations," he murmured over the line.

"That is why you are Prime," Ratchet retorted. "Hurry and go. You know Ironhide would never let you live it down, should you miss an opportunity to beat the Decepticons."

"Good luck."

He turned, transformed, and started again on the track. "Sam," he said. "Move out. Ratchet will handle things here."

The sound of both Bumblebee and Sam on the other end nearly made Optimus slam on his breaks. "We're just going to leave them?" Sam was saying.

"Sir, are you certain? What if Barricade were to return?" from Bumblebee sounding tinny and far away through Sam's radio.

"It is our only chance to follow Barricade to his hideout," Optimus answered. His voice drowned out both young protestors'. "Ratchet has assured me he is capable of joining us. I have no reason to doubt his assessment of the situation. Now, move out."

Hesitantly, Sam followed him, driving slower, more cautiously than before. He was aware of the tension in his cab, as everyone sat frozen. Vaguely, he wondered if they were thinking the same thing he was. Would he have to fight, now that their numbers were halved? What would happen to them, if he, their one chance of getting out of danger, was occupied by a robot death match with an evil police car?

As much as he wanted to ask someone, anyone, those questions, he didn't dare. There was too much fear already in the cab, without him adding to it. In fact, Bumblebee still had not released the armrest, even though his hand was now shaking slightly.

"Hey, Bee?" the teen ventured. His voice was quiet, far more solemn than it had been in weeks.

"Yes, Sam?"

"They'll be okay, yeah? I mean… Optimus. He wouldn't joke about that kind of thing."

The hand clenched around the armrest relaxed slightly, accompanied by a hiss of air through weary lungs. "No," Bumblebee admitted. "He would not."

Even so, as they followed after the semi, Bumblebee did not take his gaze from the mountain of stone behind them, nor did the worry once leave his face.

* * *

Only when he was sure the others were truly leaving, and that there would be no idiotic heroics did Ratchet begin his work. A scan of the area was first, seeking out anything that even slightly resembled Ironhide's signal. He hadn't been able to see much when the rocks had fallen, only a boulder the size of Megatron himself bearing down on the old warrior. 

But if something as mundane as that were to kill Ironhide, Ratchet would disassemble his own head. He picked up a familiar, but faint, signal, originating from somewhere to the left. Turning, Ratchet stifled a groan of dismay. No wonder Optimus had been unable to locate his soldier.

"Only you would manage to get yourself thrown off a cliff," he muttered, and began a slow descent, trying all the while not to think of the amount of repair work he'd have to do once he reached his comrade.

It was difficult, but the debris from the hillside had turned a steep drop into a more or less manageable slope. From what he could see, the canyon naturally changed from the sheer cliff he now negotiated, to a shallower, gentle slope, though the dislodged boulders made it hard to tell where one began and the other ended. More than once, his grip slipped, sending the medic sliding a few feet before he could catch himself again. The curse of a noncombatant, he supposed, was a lack of the inherent agility that the others possessed. He made do, though.

As he passed a cluster of boulders, something caught his eye.

Cautiously, Ratchet made his way over—hand over foot over hand—until he was standing directly above the dark object in question. Fist-sized rocks obscured its shape, even as he slid down to stand on the boulder nearest it. He moved them carefully out of the way, curious. But once the object was uncovered, the curiosity faded, leaving only a sense of shock that centuries of battlefield triage and treatment did little to numb.

Lying in the cluster of boulders, cannon still extended in mute defiance, was Ironhide's severed arm.

* * *

A/N: Garth Brooks and his lyrics belong to him. Apologies to anyone who likes him. And yes, this was a rather short chapter. 


	9. Friday, 12PM to ?

9.

Friday, 12PM – ???

Things had only become more tense as the halved Autobot force continued deeper into the maze of canyons. The air in the Camaro was so deathly still, it felt like a wire strung too far, as if it would snap with the slightest pressure or provocation. No one dared breathe a word. Even Optimus was mute, his full attention apparently on tracking the lurking Decepticon. In the quiet, it was impossible not to think of the others, left behind, and of the battle ahead.

Sam wanted to talk to one of them—Bee, Lennox, even Mikaela. In some ways, especially Mikaela. But he didn't dare break the pall of silence that had wrapped itself around the interior. He tried focusing on the landscape, on the slick mud beneath his wheels. But that only brought back images of the landslide, and with that came the thought of his passengers being the ones trapped back behind him, under the falling rocks, too-fragile bodies broken beyond repair. He forced his thoughts away from contemplating the desert. Besides, it had all started to look the same.

How was he supposed to find his way back to civilization anyway? Sam had gotten himself lost after the first switchback trail. Would Bee be able to get them back? There were systems blinking on and off all over the place, but he couldn't begin to make heads or tails of any of them.

_Can I really do this…? _

It was too late for those thoughts. There was no turning back now.

As if she could hear him, Mikaela's hand squeezed the back of his driver's seat, just once, just long enough for the contact to register as comfort. He wanted to return the favor, but, again, the realization that he could not brought only resignation, no sadness.

He readied himself to say something. It had gone on too long, the silence. If he didn't speak now, he might not get another chance. And besides, silence and Samuel Witwicky were natural enemies.

_"The trail ends here."_

Once again, Sam narrowly avoided a collision with Optimus. They had stopped after winding down into yet another valley, and were now sitting before what appeared to be a military bunker set into a rocky wall. Little was visible of the structure itself, save for dull metal doors framing a dark, gaping interior—like a mouth cut into the side of the canyon. It certainly did not look like a place one would expect to find the enemy. Government-funded scientists, yes. Decepticons, no.

"Is he sure?" Lennox asked, peering out through the rain. The skepticism in his voice almost covered the tension—almost.

"He is," murmured Bumblebee. He sounded so distant that the others turned to stare at him in concern. His head was down, studying the floor. "Optimus would know."

"Guess we'll have to take your word on it, kid."

Before the captain could make a move to exit, Optimus had transformed, and was holding out a warning hand to the group. The commander's faceplate was drawn into place, giving his orders even more weight. "You will remain here," he told them. "And remember. If things do not go as planned…"

A very large part of him wanted to disobey that order. Better to get this all over and done with than wait out here for the shooting to start.

_But what happens to Bee and everyone else then? _

No. There wasn't going to be any antics anymore. If Bumblebee was small and vulnerable, it was up to him to watch out for his friend. He owed the Autobot that much, at least. As much as he hated the thought of running away, of abandoning Optimus to whatever lurked in that dark hole, he had to protect the people he carried. They had no one else, should he take off.

Even so, that realization, that decision, surprised him. Such single-mindedness was unlike him. Was this something else he'd have to get used to? Was his personality changing along with his body?

"Book it back to town," Sam finished, shaking off those thoughts. "Got it, Optimus. We'll run like hell."

Optimus did not so much as blink at the choice of words—unsurprising, considering certain members of his troops used worse in casual conversation. He gave them a nod before disappearing into the dimness beyond the facility doors, weapon in hand.

For a long while, there was more silence, broken only by the incessant drone of rain on the roof and outer skin of the Camaro. Lennox ducked out once or twice to pace in a clipped, tight circle around the car, returning to protests on the part of said vehicle due to the water sheeting off his clothing. Both Sam and Mikaela fidgeted in their own ways, the car rocking back and forth in the rapidly growing puddles, the girl picking at her nails until each was worn down to the quick. At one point, Sam was certain he heard a coyote, but saw no need to enlighten the others of such. No need to make a tense situation worse—even though he'd jumped a bit at the sudden intrusion of sound.

Only Bumblebee remained still, staring after his leader, body held tense as piano wire. Sitting and waiting was not what he wanted to be doing now. Not when his fellow Autobots were lying buried under fallen rocks, not when his commander was headed into danger without anyone to watch his back. His fingers itched to tear open the door and follow Optimus—orders or no.

"He shouldn't be going in alone," he said finally. All eyes turned to him, taken aback by the break in silence. "Someone should be going with him," Bumblebee continued, never looking away from the dark interior before them. "Even Optimus can be taken by surprise…"

In response, the doors locked.

"Dude, Bee. No," Sam said. "You heard him. We? Stay here." The car backed up a few feet, as if to emphasize the point further. "Because they have big, Decepticon guns. And we have… what? A little dart gun?"

"It's a .38," Lennox retorted, but made no effort to defend the weapon beyond the correction.

"Whatever." It wasn't hard to picture Sam rolling his eyes to accompany that single word. "I mean… my point is, we can't just go running in there, right? With just that thing?"

"I can't let him do this alone," Bumblebee said firmly. He fought with the lock, pulling on it manually, only to have Sam snap it back into place. "Sam, open the door."

"Hell no." The Camaro's engine revved warningly, as if threatening to head back to civilization should Bumblebee persist.

"Open it."

From the back seat, Mikaela leaned forward, suddenly, rapping her hand on the dash and gripping Bumblebee's shoulder. "Guys!" she hissed. "Shut up!"

The engine died and Bumblebee turned to face her. Lennox, equally surprised, did likewise. But, Mikaela was looking straight ahead—out the windshield. Slowly, she pointed upwards, every motion indicating the need for quiet. Following her finger, they easily spotted the large robotic arachnid, scuttling down the rock face and into the maw of the tunnel. Its legs slipped a bit on the wet stone, but other than the vague sound of metal scraping, its descent was eerily soundless.

"Shit, they _are _going to double team him!" Lennox said, his voice pitched low. He went for the door, only to be stopped by Bumblebee.

"It's a miracle he didn't notice us where we are," the Autobot whispered. "Wait a moment, until he's left for certain."

Again, silence fell, thick and anxious. Bumblebee figured the only thing that may have saved them from being discovered was Sam's signal. It was still so completely different from any known Autobot, that Scorponok may have simply decided it was nothing to take notice of. There were also the canyon walls to consider. Combined with Scorponok's injuries, the interference from the rock surrounding them could very well have kept them hidden. Regardless of the reason, they had been lucky. And in Bumblebee's experience, luck did not often make a habit of coming around a second time to help.

"I do not think we have much of an option left now," he murmured, after he determined the length of waiting to be sufficient. "If Barricade is in there, it would have been simple enough, but two of them in that confined of space could prove fatal—even for Optimus."

Sam paused for a moment in thought. He didn't like this at all. There was too much risk. Then again, he didn't like the waiting either.

"He should be out of hearing range," said Bumblebee, interrupting the teen's thoughts. He used the chance to pop the lock and jump out of the car. Lennox made a grab for his shirt, but missed, falling across the seats with an oath.

Instead of yelling after him, Sam just said, "Everybody out."

There was another pause.

"Now, move it."

Lennox and Mikaela quickly exited. The moment they were out, Sam transformed. Everyone began making their way toward the entrance until large metal feet stepped in front of them. "You guys start heading back," Sam said. He gestured broadly in the direction they'd just come from.

Sounds of protest came from everyone at his feet. Another gesture cut them off. "No," he said, shaking his head slightly. "If it is going to be as tight as it looks in there, then the last thing we need is for all or you to get caught in between all the combat." Sam had tried to emulate the Autobot leader, as Optimus' methods at persuasion were far superior to his own. This was one time in which he absolutely had to get his message across, with no questions asked. Watching their faces, however, it appeared his attempt at mimicry had worked a little too well. At the sound of his own words coming out so rigidly Sam was taken aback, as apparently was everyone else.

"Sam, are you okay…?" Mikaela seemed to search his gaze for a moment and he suddenly felt very aware of himself.

"The last thing I need is for you guys to be made road kill cause I didn't listen," he said by way of explanation. His hands tried to find their way into nonexistent pockets, and ended up sliding off his hips. "I dunno what's gonna happen in there, y'know? So, you guys go back and see if you can find Ratchet and Ironhide. Tell them we need backup or something."

He had more to say. Had a small fist not slammed into his ankle, he would have said all those things. Instead, he found himself glaring at Bumblebee, who, despite the anger in his eyes, cradled an obviously aching hand.

"I will not abandon Optimus!" he snapped.

"You're not—" Sam started to say.

Bumblebee cut him off by ducking between his feet, darting towards the open doors.

"Awesome," the teen groaned. He made to run after Bumblebee when two other small figures made their way around his large feet, nearly tripping him.

"Listen kid," said the captain, holding out a warning hand. It was doubtful whether such a frail restraint would do anything in the event Sam decided to ignore the captain. "We're coming in there with you whether you like it or not."

"Fine, sure, do whatever," Sam muttered. Despite his attempts at holding himself back, his true nature had begun to poke through, and he was more than ready for some sort of action—especially if it was as simple as checking up on Optimus Prime. "But I'm not gonna run through a dark tunnel with you guys hanging out where I'm stepping."

He reached down carefully and, with some colorful and anatomically impossible protests from Lennox, scooped up the two humans. As Sam started in at a jog, he kept the two balanced precariously in hand. Inside the dimly-lit facility, his optical sensors—at least, he assumed that's what they were called—instantly compensated for the change in light. The whole area turned from black to a pale blue-green, illuminating the sprinting form of Bumblebee. Had his new body's systems not taken over, Sam would have stepped on the Autobot.

"Bumblebee, slow the hell down!"

"What?" The scraggly teenager sent back a glare between heavy gulps of air. However fit he was in his body, the human form he now possessed only ever ran when it was absolutely necessary.

"We won't get anywhere waiting for you to run and catch up," Sam told him. Before the Autobot could protest, he gingerly picked Bumblebee up. With equal care, he placed all three small forms on his shoulders.

"All right, everybody buckle up for safety," he said, trying to lighten the mood. "I'm still not that great at taking turns yet."

"Fantastic," Lennox groaned.

It was a rather tight fit. Limbs wrapped around metal and flesh alike, fighting for a hold that did not dig into sensitive areas. Mikaela wordlessly held on to whatever she could fit her hands around, as a second later Sam was off like a shot down the hallway.

Within, there was no sign of Optimus. Not even a footprint to show the Autobot leader had indeed passed this way. Nothing but decrepit old metal and vaguely blinking lights met their seeking gazes. Something was obviously still powering the place. It was hard to tell how deeply into the hillside the facility stretched. Now and again, a smaller hallway branched off, winding further into darkness. As they advanced, the light from the entryway grew fainter behind them. Occasionally, Sam heard a soft sound, like an electronic _ping_. But, since none of the others appeared to hear it, he dismissed it as nothing.

They had passed several of those split-off hallways when something stopped Sam in his tracks, nearly sending his passengers flying. The soft_ping_ had grown much louder, ringing in his head. A new sensation came with it. It was a feeling like cold fingers creeping down his nonexistent spine, and a sure sense he was not alone. There was no better way to describe it. To complicate things, a red light flickered at the corner of his vision. He tried to look down at it, only to be confronted by a flash of alternating images of a police car, and a metal monstrosity looking only vaguely like the original forms of the Autobots.

"Hey, Bee…?"

The response was winded. "Yes, Sam?"

"Is it… bad if there's a little red light on?"

A pause. "Where…?"

"In my eye," he answered, trying not to crane his neck to look at his friend. He didn't know what would shift to crush fragile limbs. "And, I look at it… and I see the crazy cop. Y'know, Barricade?"

Mikaela's soft intake of breath and Bumblebee's sudden silence answered him. Slowly, Sam turned, raising his hands towards his shoulders, in case whatever had startled his friends decided to fire on them as well.

A familiar shape stood barring the entryway, spiked and menacing silhouette blocking out the light. Red eyes glowed in the dark of its face. It growled out something comprised entirely of electronic sounds—no words were discernable. Yet, somehow, Sam understood it.

_"Welcome, Autobot,"_ Barricade snarled.

The Decepticon flexed a hand, twisting until it changed into some awful offspring of tire and medieval flail. It was an all-too familiar weapon. Sam felt Bumblebee tense at the sight of it. In response, he carefully tightened his fingers about the people crouched on his shoulders.

"Guys?" he whispered, as if worried their enemy would overhear. "Go find Optimus, okay?" A quick glance towards the Decepticon. "And run."

"Sam!"

Mikaela—hands wrapped around his finger. She didn't let go.

He shook her off, gently, but firmly. They couldn't handle this. They had to get out of here before it was too late. He heard them begin to run, though he didn't look down at them. It was easier to let them go that way.

Trying to recall his training session yesterday—had it only been yesterday?—he planted his feet, bracing himself against the charge he knew was coming. Instead of tackling him, Barricade only nodded towards the ceiling.

The_ping_ shrieked in his head again, the unmistakable image of a scorpion-shaped mechanoid flashing past his vision with a sensation like sharp pain. Sam whirled in time to see Scorponok drop from above, skittering after his fleeing companions, oblivious to Lennox's shouts and shots.

"No!"

He lunged for the arachnid Decepticon, but a blow from behind sent him spinning into a wall. Behind him, pounding footsteps heralded Barricade's charge. Sam barely rolled under the strike. Before Barricade could pounce again, he was on his feet, ready to dodge, to run, whatever it took to stay alive until help came.

* * *

_Static._

Ironhide blinked several times, trying to reset his optics. But even when the static faded, all he could see was darkness. It took him a full minute, fighting to stay online through pain, to realize he was facedown. Which explained a lot—especially the rain hitting the back of his head at an irritatingly fast rate.

The sound of shifting stone above drew his attention to a descending Autobot signal. He tried pushing himself upright, but the attempt only brought a response from the right arm. The left was nothing more than a mass of pain. Thoroughly confused by now, he ran a systems check.

Near as he could tell, there were several things either loose or cracked by the fall and the rain of boulders. None of it was enough to keep him down, though certain medical officers might beg to differ, save for the arm. His systems had to be malfunctioning because, according to them, the entire arm was missing. The fall couldn't have torn it off. He was sure he hadn't fallen that far, or that hard—at least, he thought he was. The memories were a bit hazy. He recalled firing on the Decepticon, a huge rock… falling… and then…?

_I woke up. Hmn. _

Stifling a groan, he pushed himself up, using the responsive arm. Mud caked his torso, and most of his face, until he rolled slightly sideways to prop himself off and brush it off. A glance informed him that his systems were not, in fact, out of order. His left arm was indeed missing.

_Frag. Where'd it go? _

Using a large boulder for leverage, he hauled himself to his feet. Battered joints hissed and creaked in complaint, and some part of the armor on his back dug into a more sensitive area with each movement. He refused to think about the pain, and concentrated on locating his vanished limb.

Even with the pain, it was nothing he couldn't handle. If Bumblebee could cope with two missing legs, he could certainly deal with a lost arm. The only problem was getting up out of this canyon, and back to the others. Climbing wouldn't be easy on three limbs. And chasing after the Autobots on foot was not something he was particularly looking forward to. His alt-mode would be of little use without half of its front components.

If anything, he mourned the loss of the cannon more than the loss of the arm itself. It was strange to try and extend the weapon, only to be met with nothing but feebly twitching attachment components and more pain. Needless to say, he ceased experimenting after the first try nearly sent him reeling, sprawled and offline in the mud, again.

Finally giving up, he dropped down to rest against the debris. The rain was, thankfully, washing away the accumulated mud, while at the same time, pooling around his feet. How long had he been down here? His internal clock was off, not surprising considering the tumble he'd taken. If he craned his neck, he could barely see the top of the ridge.

_Further than I thought._

The others must have trusted him to catch up, because he couldn't clearly pick up any of their signals. Even the one he'd originally picked up had faded, probably due to the interference of the rock around him. Either that, or they'd taken off. He was on his own—

_"Ironhide! Can you hear me?"_

Though he would never tell a soul, the volume of the radio transmission made him jump. It figured Ratchet of all Autobots would be hanging around. He would have preferred someone a bit less inclined to lecture, but if the medic could help him haul his aft back up to the top of the canyon, he wasn't going to be picky. And besides, maybe he would decide not to be stingy with the analgesic coding.

_"Yeah. Won't for much longer if you keep shouting,"_ he growled._"Where the frag are you?"_

_"I should ask you the same thing,"_ Ratchet retorted. _"I found something you might be missing."_

A shower of rocks hailed Ratchet's arrival. True to form, he landed almost on his backside, saved only by a frantic twist of his torso. Steadying himself with one hand, he straightened, left off balance by the dark object slung over one brightly colored shoulder. He was grumbling to himself in a familiar litany of curses.

_Good to know nothin's changed._

"You look like a car wreck," Ratchet informed him, raising an eye-ridge as he took in the numerous scrapes and dents covering his comrade. Without another word, he advanced, Ironhide's arm still dangling over his shoulder like some sort of macabre decoration.

"Yeah," he grunted. "The other guy doesn't—" He paused as the medic's deft fingers unhooked a particularly sharp bit of armor from where it had become lodged his interior casing. "…look much better."

Ratchet didn't respond, just made a skeptical sound as he worked. Soldering iron and welder flashed back and forth in his hands, alternating with bits of Ironhide's exterior and interior. The heat felt rather good, as it numbed the smaller twinges of pain the more minor injuries generated. Now if only Ratchet would hurry up and do something about the arm, they could be on their way.

"Where's everyone else?" he asked, trying to prompt an exit.

"Optimus went after Barricade and Scorponok…"

"_Alone_?"

"Sit down and hold still!" the medic barked, all but shoving Ironhide back onto the rock. "Not alone, Sam was with him." In response to Ironhide's sputter of protest, he forcefully wrenched something back into place, cutting off any further debate. "Turn around. I'm going to see if it's possible to make some temporary reattachments on your arm."

With another growl, Ironhide pulled away, heaving himself up. "We don't have time for that," he said. "We'll do it later. C'mon." When no response came, he turned back to Ratchet, gesturing up the slope. "Hurry up. Can't do this fast enough on my own."

The medic's confusion quickly turned to irritation. "Did you fry your circuits?" Ratchet snapped. "You shouldn't be climbing anything in your state! I haven't even begun on your interior!"

"You see anything that's going to kill me within the next few hours?"

There was a pause before Ratchet admitted that he did not see any such injury. His voice was flat, posture tense. He didn't like giving that particular diagnosis, but couldn't lie—not to someone who knew him so well.

"Great."

Ironhide reached over and collected his limb from the perturbed medic. Slinging it over a shoulder, he marched for the slope. Moving still hurt, especially in the shoulders, though the edge had been taken off. He could deal with it for now—for as long as it took until they'd destroyed the targets and rescued their companions.

"Help me up, would you?" he grunted. "Sam's not good enough to watch Optimus' back yet. You know that. It's stupid to just leave it up to the kid."

More grumbling from the usual quarter. "You are hopeless," Ratchet muttered, coming to the black Autobot's side. "Utterly hopeless." He slid an arm around Ironhide's broader shoulders, and they began their slow ascent regardless of his protests. Progress was slow, each step and handhold waiting on Ironhide's hissed sign.

"One of these days," Ratchet muttered, waiting for his comrade to tell him to continue. "I'm going to have to leave you for scrap, you realize."

"Yeah."

* * *

The door had shut and locked behind him, sealing him in the small room he had entered sometime in his search for Barricade. So seamlessly had it closed, that there was no way for him to pry it apart. Judging from the way the room was put together, blowing the door apart was also not an option, as the wall it came from had the look of a load-bearing wall. Taking it down might very well bring the whole place down on their heads. The surrounding walls were solid rock. It would take more firepower than he possessed to blast his way through them. 

For all intents and purposes, Optimus Prime was stuck.

There was a _clang_ as the Autobot commander let his head strike the metal doors in a private show of frustration. Nothing about this mission had gone right, and the situation was worsening by the moment. They should have expected the traps. Divide-and-conquer was one of the strategies most favored by the Decepticons, after all. They had gone in overconfident, and paid for it.

He straightened, his head brushing the ceiling. This was no time to rue one's decisions. If he did not act, it might be too late to rescue Sam and the others from whatever lurked beyond the door. Optimus scanned the area, searching for anything that might unlock the doors and let him out.

His gaze came to rest on a pile of seemingly discarded sheet metal. Somewhere within that pile, a light was slowly pulsing. It was strange enough that Optimus stepped over, carefully removing debris until the object was visible. For a moment, all he could do was stare. When it dawned on him what exactly he was looking at, he recoiled.

He had always known the Decepticons were cruel, merciless creatures, but this…

_This is a new atrocity. Even for them…_

There was a machine stored beneath the debris, a machine created of some terrible hybridization of Cybertronian and human design. The head hung limply on its neck, multiple eyes dark, sightless and dead. Its four arms were equally as lifeless, though the fingers were contorted in a sort of robotic rigor mortis, giving them the appearance of being curled in agony. Dents and scorch marks covered its green armor—it looked as if it had been beaten as soundly as Scorponok.

But the worst did not come until one took in the sight of its chest. It had been cracked open, by sheer force if the stress fractures covering the casing were to judge, and the Spark removed, making way for wires and tubes. Nestled in the cavity, like some sort of alien organ, was a machine eerily similar in design to the broken bits Optimus had retrieved from the site of the explosion that had launched this entire mess into motion.

_Primus… not another one!_

With infinite care, Optimus knelt before the motionless carapace, examining the bomb. His faceplate slid across fragile vocal circuitry, just in case. He was not Ratchet. While he had some training with electronic and robotic devices, his knowledge was not up to par with the medic's. But Ratchet was not here. If Optimus did not do something about this explosive, it was very likely that, with the dead creature's Spark to power it, the hillside would bury them, Decepticon and Autobot alike.

Gently prying open the case, Optimus recalled another, less life-threatening, reason to keep the bomb intact. Should they survive this, the device might be the one thing able to restore his soldier and a certain teenage boy to their rightful places.

If either one still lived.


	10. Friday

10.

Friday

If the situation had not been so deadly real, Samuel Witwicky would have laughed.

_Fight a giant police car-turned-demented robot? What, were you crazy? And who the hell ever heard of anyone being turned into a robot, or body switching?_

This was all stupid, insane even. A part of him screamed that as he dug his heels into the dusty concrete and braced for impact.

What he had been ready for was to have the wind knocked out of him, like at football tryouts. He guessed that whatever happened to him was the near robot equivalent to it. Barricade crashed into him with enough force to make a locomotive envious. Sam's vision jolted in and out once. Sensors and warning needles popped into the back of his conscious thoughts, going off like an arcade game gone haywire. The Decepticon shoved, grappling for a handhold in Sam's armor, trying to flip him into a more vulnerable position.

"Whoa!" came the teen's shocked exclamation.

For a second, he almost lost his footing, driven back by the enemy's overwhelming momentum. He barely caught himself in time. Grabbing low, to an area Barricade's already engaged hands could not reach, and using every hydraulic and pneumatic muscle, Sam lifted and threw his opponent. The surprised Decepticon barely had enough time to utter an oath before he bounced off the concrete. Armor clanged as it rolled off, and disappeared, into the shadows.

When no police-car-shaped Decepticon immediately stood back up and attacked him, Sam turned to exit the main hall. He had to catch up to his friends before Scorponok did. With Optimus MIA, there wasn't anyone who could keep them out of danger—except him.

Scanning the hallways, he wondered if there wasn't a way to tell where the group had gone. There were far too many diverging paths for him to check them all in time. If he could purposely focus on the feeling from before, the feeling that had been Scorponok, chances were he'd find the others as well.

He rounded a corner, and stepped into an area that could very well have been a hangar bay at some point in its past. The ceilings were higher here, vanishing into the darkness above, and cylindrical tanks lined the walls, indicating where fuel had once been stored. Squinting, Sam could just make out several pairs of doors lining the far wall. Only one of which was fully shut. From that direction, emanated a feeling similar to, but unlike, the warnings he'd gotten earlier, of Barricade and Scorponok. As if to prod him along, a blue light was flashing in the corner of his vision. Sam took a few steps in that direction, curiosity piqued.

Pain shot through his lower back, sending him crashing to his knees with a startled cry. Thundering footsteps sounded behind him. He hadn't lost the enemy after all.

_I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die!_

Frantic, Sam rolled, trying to get out of immediate range. The Decepticon's mace buried itself in the concrete to his left, one of its blades brushing his arm. Had he been any slower…

But Autobots, it seemed, had their own form of adrenaline—which had turned out to be his saving grace. While Barricade struggled to pry its weapon free, Sam all but jumped to his feet. He ran, heedless of his destination, as far away from the other robot as his legs would carry him. In his haste, he tripped over more than a few bits of junk and scrap lying in his way, each misstep threatening to send him sprawling, and causing his already abused body to spasm in pain. How did the others stand it? He'd seen them suffer worse than just one hit.

The hurt distracted him enough to where he failed to notice the flashing blue dot in the corner of his eye grow larger, until he was confronted with an overwhelming feeling of familiarity. He didn't dare stop running, but he did slow, looking around to see what could have possibly given him such an impression. His course had taken him to the back of the vast space, to the pairs of conspicuous doors.

The feeling was much stronger here. It was like… Power. Calm. _Leader_…

"Optimus!"

Sam headed unerringly for the tightly closed doors. If he had indeed found the Autobot commander, then Barricade was in a far worse position than he was. And, he could not begin to describe how much he wanted to see the tables turned on the deranged police car. He didn't dare turn to look back the way he'd come. The slight pause could be all the time the Decepticon needed to apply its mace to his head.

_"Sam?"_ the voice that crackled to life over his radio almost made him collapse with relief. _"Where are you?"_

"Dude, you gotta open the door! I've got the cop behind me—I mean I've got Obstacle or Barrier or whatever the hell his name is!"

As if angered by being called by a wrongful title, Barricade launched a volley of cannon fire towards the fleeing teen. Plaster and metal rained down on Sam's head, even as he dove behind a support beam for cover.

"And he's chasing me! With a gun! Or ten!"

_"Where are you?"_ Optimus asked again, somehow managing to sound somewhere between concerned and frustrated at the boy's lack of response. _"Where are Bumblebee and the others?"_

Sam threw himself out of the way of another blast. This one smashed into a pair of tanks, destroying one and sending shrapnel flying. A few bits clipped Sam's shoulder as he fled, earning a short cry. "I don't know! We got split up!" he sputtered, trying to recover. It was strange not to have to breathe as he ran, but the observation was fleeting. He had far more to concentrate on than working out his new body. "I'm out in this huge room and there's tanks and one just hit me! You're somewhere around here, right? There's these doors and I _really_ think you're back there but—"

He paused to duck under a low-hanging beam. Maybe Barricade wouldn't notice—maybe it would hit the beam at full-force.

It didn't. The Decepticon kept coming, firing wildly in between strikes of its mace.

"Help!" he shouted. It was the only sane thing his mind could concoct at that moment. Everything else he wanted to say would only come out as a scream. He wasn't ready for this. He couldn't do this. Bumblebee was too small, too frail, to save him now—just as Lennox and Mikaela were. Ironhide and Ratchet were God knew where, doing God knew what. Optimus Prime was his last hope.

Which was why the Autobot's next words sent all of said hope crashing down into the shuddering concrete floor.

_"I can't get to you, Sam!"_ Optimus told him. There was regret now, mixed with worry, in his voice. It was apparent he did not like what he was telling the boy. _"There is a device almost exactly like the one that you and Bumblebee encountered here with me. If I attempt an escape, it will either be damaged… or destroy us."_ A pause, and, had Sam been in a less dire situation, he could imagine Optimus pounding a wall in frustration. _"Can you hold on until the others can get to you?"_

"Yeah, sure! I'll just tell the crazy robot to wait to kill me until our friends get here!"

_"Sam—"_

Whatever else Optimus had to tell him was cut off by a burst of static. Sam tried the radio again and again, each time becoming more and more frantic, each time getting only the same hissing silence.

He was alone. The realization nearly halted him in his tracks. Only mere survival instinct kept his legs going, and his head ducking below the shots and strikes of an alien mace. There was nothing standing between him and the monster crashing through the other end of the hall. No one was going to come and help him.

_No one was going to save Mikaela, Bee, or Lennox._

No one but him. All of his protests suddenly didn't matter. It hadn't mattered in Mission City—and his readiness would do nothing to keep his friends alive. He was all they had.

Metal feet slid on the floor as Sam stopped running. Fists clenched, he dropped into the combat crouch he remembered from watching Bumblebee spar with the others. The faceplate whirred into place, and his sight suddenly included a flickering target system he'd not noticed before. Letting the weapon in his arm emerge, Sam aimed carefully at the oncoming Barricade.

"Here we go," Sam muttered, and fired.

* * *

Retreats were always hazy for Lennox. Considering the number of the frenzied runs he and his men had survived, however, he was fairly certain he was in full possession of his awareness in the moment of flight. It never failed to bother him afterwards that he could not recall how he had gotten his men to relative safety.

This frantic dash was no different.

The scorpion's charge was clear in his mind—he'd fired at it out of sheer reflex. It was the third time he'd seen that thing charge at him, and you never knew which charge would be the last one you saw. As much as he'd hated running from the damn thing, he had been cognizant enough to realize they hadn't much of a choice, with their protectors otherwise occupied.

He remembered shoving the kids out of the line of attack. They'd run then, up an incline, with gunfire blazing into the walls and the staccato rap of metal claws against concrete behind them. Everything between the initial sprint, and their headlong dive into what appeared to be an air vent, was a blur.

Bumblebee was directly in front of him, crawling doggedly forward. Ahead of him was Mikaela, moving slower, but with no less determination. There was an eight-legged horror behind them, and damn it if she wasn't going to get away. Not that she had much choice should she decide to do otherwise. Lennox would have forcefully dragged her up the shaft, had she balked.

He had no idea where they were going. But the shaft had stopped the scorpion's attacks, and, to be honest, that was all that mattered to him. Wherever it was going, maybe it was somewhere the metal monster couldn't get to them. Maybe it would even take them out of this damn station.

"Captain."

Even though he knew the kid was just ahead—hell, he could so much as see the soles of battered sneakers, Bumblebee's voice startled him.

"Yeah?"

"This shaft has ended."

It didn't sound as if that observation alone was enough to warrant his attention. There had to be something else. "And…?" Lennox prompted.

Shifting ahead of him—uncomfortable silence from the boy. "We're rather high up," he said.

"Bee?" Mikaela's voice in the dark. "Define, 'rather high up'." To her credit, she didn't sound as afraid as Lennox had expected her to. Either there was some steel to the girl, or she was a damn good actress.

"Ten feet or so, if I have to estimate."

So, in other words, they were stuck. The kids couldn't jump that far. Hell, Lennox doubted if he could from this position either. Broken bones were the last thing they needed right now. Maybe one of the turns they'd bypassed would take them somewhere more beneficial. If they could backtrack… Although the thought of backing down the shaft, blind to anything coming at them, was not appealing.

"All right," Lennox began. "Here's what we do—"

Mikaela shouted, cutting him off. He heard the squeak of rubber on metal and suddenly, there was an absence of _something_ahead of them. Lennox had to resist the urge to beat his head against the duct.

_I am going to throttle that kid. With one hand. And pistol whip him with the other._

There was no room for it, otherwise he would have shoved Mikaela aside and dived after the kid. Were all teenagers this reckless? Or just Autobots? He was in store for more than his fair share of grey hairs should the former prove true. When no sound came from below, he nudged Mikaela forward, trying to see out the small rectangle of grayish light that marked the exit to the shaft. He doubted Bumblebee could have been seriously injured in the fall, but the lack of response worried him.

"Hey!" he called. "You okay down there?"

"I am." Bumblebee's voice was muffled, distant. All the same, it was a relief to hear.

"Good," Lennox muttered. "If you ever pull that stunt again, I'm going to shoot you." Before either teen could respond, he asked, "Any sign of Ugly?"

Another pause. "If by 'Ugly', you mean Scorponok," said Bumblebee. "Then, no. This room appears closed off from the others." Padded footsteps—sneakers on concrete. "I believe we can use this as a hiding place until the others locate us."

It was as good a plan as any. His sense of direction was failing him in this place. There was no way to tell how far they'd fled, or how long they'd been running. Had he the foresight to look at his watch before their headlong flight, chances were he'd have some sort of idea. But escaping with one's life took precedence over how many minutes after the hour it was. They could be on the other side of the state for all he knew. So, logically, they couldn't count on alien backup anytime soon. It would be best to hunker down, and wait out the storm.

Providing they could get out of the air vent.

"Hey, kid!" Lennox called down. "How good are you at catching?"

It took some convincing, but he managed to get Mikaela out of the shaft, and into—or, rather, onto—Bumblebee's waiting arms. She swore impressively all the way. Not waiting for the two to untangle themselves, Lennox edged out of the shaft, gripping the edge and letting his legs hang. He figured there was less of a potentially painful drop that way. After a steadying breath, he released the edge, attempting to land in a weight-dispersing crouch.

Easier said than done.

While the left side of him complied with his plan, the right refused any part in the scheme, and he buckled sideways, twisting painfully on his ankle. He froze, a litany of curses forming on his lips, none of them appropriate for the ears of his current company. Instead, he hissed between his teeth, easing his weight off the offending injury. A glance downwards showed the ankle to be skewed at an angle that was decidedly unhealthy, unless the party in question possessed one of the fabled "double-joints" so prized in bored communities. This was definitely the last thing they needed.

"Captain?"

He looked up at Bumblebee, who extended a hand to haul the older man to his feet.

"Are you all right?"

"Great," he muttered, taking the proffered hand. Between the two of them, he was hauled back to his feet, though he leaned heavily to the left. The right ankle complained bitterly whenever he moved it, sending harsh spikes of pain all the way up his leg. Running was out of the question, so it was just as well they had decided to lock themselves in and hunker down.

And, judging from the room, there would be plenty of places to do just that. Crates were piled in haphazard mounds about the room, as if something had tossed them aside. Mikaela had already moved off among them, picking through larger pieces, apparently looking for any useful objects. There were no obvious exits, save for a pair of ventilation fans, leading up and out, acting as skylights for the dingy room. Turning about, he saw a low door—it looked like a garage door, if he were any judge of things. Aside from the obvious, it was a fairly unremarkable room.

_What the hell were the people here doing anyway? _

"Least there's places to hide," he muttered.

Bumblebee nodded, obviously taking stock of the situation just as Lennox had. "If needed, some of this debris could be used as a blockade," the Autobot mused. "Can you walk, Captain? We should move to a more secure point."

Lennox's reply was cut off by Mikaela's voice, coming from somewhere further on. "Hey guys?" she called. "Bee? You need to come see this."

Using Bumblebee as a support, they wormed their way through the crates, following Mikaela's voice. There didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary, until they rounded a corner, and found themselves staring up at a monstrosity Lennox had only seen on late-night reruns of _Stargate_. For a long moment, all he could do was stare up at it, trying to make sense of the multitude of wires and dimly-glowing panels. The only part of it that was even remotely familiar was a crude satellite dish wired to the top. It dwarfed Mikaela, who stood at the base of it, glowering up at it as if by sheer force of will, she could order it to make sense.

Unsurprisingly, Bumblebee was the one to speak first. And when he did, the tone of his words sent a chill down the Captain's spine.

"It's a beacon," he breathed. "A Decepticon beacon."

"So now they're calling for backup?" Mikaela asked, not taking her eyes off the towering Decepticon-bait. "That's just…" A brief, defeated pause. "That's great." She kicked at the structure with the toe of a battered shoe.

"It would appear so," Bumblebee replied. "Aside from Starscream, however, I doubt there are any Decepticons close enough to process the signal. Barricade would have to leave it running for some time before it was able to penetrate deeper into space…"

Perfect. Damn Murphy and his law. As tempted as he was to ask the world what else could possibly go wrong, Lennox wasn't one who enjoyed tempting fate. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair, as if the pressure of his fingers could relieve the stress. "There anything we can do about this?" he asked. "Like, I don't know, break it?"

There was a wicked gleam in Bumblebee's eye as he looked up at the Captain. It was the first time any emotion besides fear or trauma had registered in those eyes—a heartening sight, even given the situation. "I was just about to suggest that very thing," he said.

"Shouldn't be that hard," Mikaela said, breaking her staring contest with the device. She bent, picking up a baseball bat-sized piece of debris. "Especially with all this junk…"

_Boom!_

The sound sent Lennox and Bumblebee dropping to the floor out of reflex. By now, Mikaela knew full well what exactly an explosion sounded like, but lacked the combat training to send her flat against the ground. To her credit, she plastered herself against the device, ducking. The sound of skittering feet filled the air, combined with the too-familiar chatter of a giant, robotic arachnid. Lennox risked a glance up, and spotted the thing crouched in the smoking doorway, waving its single functioning claw.

"Oh… fuck me," he muttered under his breath.

As one, they fell back, taking cover under a pile of crates. It wasn't much, but it was all they had. Automatically, Lennox reached for his pistol, even as he hunkered down between the kids. It wasn't going to do much against the thing. He knew that. Though, given the situation, he'd take any comfort he could get.

For as long as he could get it.

* * *

The Autobot was fleeing? But there were weak little organics to thoughtlessly protect. There was a leader to stand and fight for. What on Cybertron was going on with this defunct creature?

Puzzled, Barricade nearly paused in his pursuit. However, he was not one known to waste an opportunity. If the Autobot was not going to fight back, it just made things easier for him. He gave chase, driving it deeper into the facility. Minor injuries, dents and scrapes from the toss it had given him, chaffed as he ran, but he gave them no mind. Such small pains were nothing to a Decepticon such as he.

The deeper they went, the closer they came to Prime's location. There was nothing to be done about it. Even if the Autobot reached Prime, an attempt to bring the Autobot leader into the fray would only result in a deadly blast—albeit a blast Barricade could avoid. But maybe that was for the better. If he drove the yellow Autobot to desperation, the odds rose in his favor by a significant margin.

So Barricade played its game. He gave chase, but never allowed himself to come close enough to land a blow. The Autobot was all but whimpering. Quite unusual. Perhaps it was malfunctioning, or injured more seriously than Barricade had originally assumed. Whatever the reason, it was playing into Barricade's claws perfectly. It even paused outside the door to Prime's chamber—probably begging the sentimental old fool for help. He backed off slightly, circling to a position better protected from the blast he hoped would soon follow.

When it didn't go in, Barricade snarled and charged. He was tiring of this game. If it would not cooperate and die like a good little Autobot, he would have to slaughter it himself. It continued to run, glancing back behind it with pure terror reflecting pitifully in its optics. Weaving in and out of the supporting pillars, it put on more speed, trying to lose him. He matched its pace easily. The sooner it was blasted to oblivion, the better. It seemed to forget he was as tireless as it.

Its next move took him completely by surprise. It ground to a halt, sliding around to face him, hand-cannon aimed unerringly at the space between his optics.

Barricade barely had time to hurl himself down out of range before three plasma bolts slammed into the space he'd just been. Snarling out curses, he raised the mace, swinging it down at the Autobot's skull. He was too close now for the cannon. The recoil impact would injure the Autobot as well as him, should the yellow idiot choose to fire. He was not, however, too close for the mace to do significant damage. Why had it changed tactics? Why was it standing its ground now?

No matter. It would all be over soon—

The mace impacted something that was certainly not Autobot armor. The impact sent a shockwave all the way up Barricade's arm, startling the Decepticon into staring, dumbfounded as his opponent held an empty fuel tank firmly in hand, the mace buried deep in the makeshift shield. Barricade strained, attempting to pull his weapon free. The Autobot pulled right back, ensuring he was unable to do so.

To Barricade's further confusion, music—human music—crackled to life from somewhere within the Autobot's system.

"_No one's going to take me alive,_

_The time has come to make things right,_

_You and I must fight for our right,_

_You and I must fight to survive,_

_No one's going to take me alive…!"_

Red optics met blue, and for the first time since their first encounter, there was no fear there, nothing but a grim resolve.

And hatred.

Then the fuel tank swung up, complete with mace, striking Barricade a blow that sent him reeling into the floor. Something in his face snapped, and spiked lower jaw fell to the ground with a clang. Rock music continued to blare as the Decepticon scraped himself up.

_Fine_.

If the scum wanted to get serious, then Barricade would show him what Decepticons were truly made of. With a roar, he sprang on Autobot, claws extended to rip and tear, while his foe mirrored the move, sounding his own peculiar battle cry.

* * *

Lyrics © Muse, _Knights of Cydonia_, which I highly recommend. 


	11. Friday, ? to 4PM

11.  
Friday??? - 4PM

_This is worse than that stupid three week wrestling stint in PE last year. _

That was all Sam could think as he prepared himself for the oncoming collision with the police car. That and at the last second another thought crossed his mind somewhere in the vicinity of: _What kind of highly advanced alien being uses a freaking mace? _

He ducked as it swung just overhead, a dozen calculations that he was only barely aware of as the whirred through his mind telling him both how much to duck and for precisely how long. Reaching up a metal hand, he grabbed the chain of the horrible weapon and yanked.

Barricade seemed unready for any response at all, especially this, which resulted in his entire weight being shifted to account for the hit. He was pulled off balance, and once again, went flying though the air. Of course just as Sam had made a move to body slam him, the creature's training kicked and he rolled clear at the last minute. For a quick second Sam panicked, realizing that he was now the vulnerable one. He then recalled that he had a rather useful attachment currently active. :

"Back off, asshole!" he yelled as he fired the canon three times toward the Decepticon's chest.

They landed, each sending him staggering back a step. With all his might Sam tried to remember what to do next. The training Ironhide had given him had been rushed and he paid attention about as well as squirrel on speed. Aside from the trick with the tree—or, in this case, fuel tank—he couldn't think of anything, his mind a complete, panicked blank.

"Ah fuck it!"

He ran at the threat before it could regain its balance. His shoulder found its way into the other robot's midsection, similar to the way he thought he'd seen football players tackle. He pushed Barricade up against the wall and a hydraulically backed arm punched him as hard as he could in the chest.

"This was supposed to be awesome!" the teen shouted, continuing to pummel the shocked and unresponsive creature. "But no! You went and screwed it up!" For good measure, he landed a few punches in its face. "Now I can't even touch my girlfriend! You son of a bitch!"

Barricade's legs swung up, and, despite the blows landing on his face, he kicked hard into Sam's chest, sending the teen skidding backwards. Chestplate dented, Sam wove to his feet in time to see the Decepticon bearing down on him once again, firing. He was, distantly, surprised that the kick had hurt as little as it did. His armor must have taken the brunt of the attack—lucky for him. Out of reflex, Sam ducked, then launched another tackle at Barricade's legs, hoping to bring him down.

This time, the Decepticon surprised Sam. He threw himself forward, narrowly avoiding the boy's lunge. Sam slid across the floor, his armor throwing up sparks from the concrete.

_Ow. Ow ow ow! Shit! Is that supposed to happen?_

He was given no time to further reflect on the issue. Gunfire snapped into the ground behind him, punctuated by the pound of Barricade's feet as the transformed police car gave chase. Ducking the shots, Sam did the only thing he could. He returned fire.

His shots caught Barricade's gun across the barrel, throwing his aim off enough to where his blasts went wide. Enraged, the Decepticon continued to fire, ignoring the mounting pressure in the warped barrel. He would have his prey! After all his work, he was going to have this pathetic little creature! One way or another!

The barrel exploded.

Shrapnel and plasma filled the air and mingled with the roar of the wounded Decepticon. Sam, wisely, took to his heels—so to speak—and ran, until he hit the next room, where he crouched, waiting for the tremors of the blast to fade. It seemed like hours until he summoned the courage to peer back the way he'd come. Barricade, for all he knew, could just be waiting, hidden in the smoke, for him to try such a thing.

But when no _thud_ of encroaching Decepticon came, he risked a look around the corner. The air was heavy with explosive residue, char marks evident on the surrounding concrete and plaster. A bit of ceiling had even detached itself from above, and fell with a sharp sound to the ground below. Sam took a few tentative steps inside, waving his hand to clear the smoke from around his face. It was ineffective, he could see just fine, but it felt necessary all the same.

In the center of the mess lay a pile of warped and twisted metal, red eyes mercifully blank. It did not move.

For a moment, Sam could only stare at it, numb. Then, slowly realization dawned and he sagged against a pillar, nearly limp with relief. Had he been able, he supposed he'd probably have tears in his eyes. A laugh, bordering on hysterical, bubbled up instead. He closed his eyes, just, for a moment, savoring the silence.

"I did it," he hissed. "I fucking did it."

For a beat, there was silence, and then he allowed himself a long, drawn out whoop of victory, arms flung up towards the invisible sky.

"You hear that, Optimus! The cop's down! It's fucking _down!_"

Halfway through his celebrations, Sam froze, remembering. There were still people he had to help, and to protect. Every joint and metal muscle complained when he dragged himself up. Automatically, he took a step in the direction of the Autobot leader, but paused. He knew nothing about bombs—except they exploded quite spectacularly, and could easily be made from fireworks and microwaves. How could he help Optimus? The others were fighting for their lives, for all he knew. Did he go to them? Or stay and cut a way through to Optimus?

Before he could decide, heavy footsteps sounded in the hall behind him. Sam spun, sending his protesting body into the now-familiar combat position.

"Oh bring it," he muttered, waiting for the lurker to show themselves. They'd be in for a surprise once they did, by way of his cannon.

* * *

They shouldn't be here. They should be far, far away—somewhere safe, while he handled this. This wasn't their fight. How could he have let them become so involved? 

_Wake up! Now is not the time for this!_

Bumblebee pulled Lennox down, just before a hastily fired missile could remove the Captain's upper torso. In a show of unthinking heroics, the man had stood, aiming his weapon towards the Decepticon. To Bumblebee's knowledge, he was well aware such an attack would be ineffective, and he had difficulty understanding Lennox's sudden urge to throw himself into the fray with such a sub-par weapon. Mikaela had not moved from her crouch near the beacon, hands, clenched tightly into fists, over her head. He couldn't blame her for being afraid. Only fools were never frightened. Not to mention, she was in a far safer position than Lennox's reckless spot near the edge of cover, and she most likely was aware of that fact.

"Now what?" Lennox was demanding, shoving the Autobot away. His expression landed somewhere between frustrated and enraged—hopefully the anger was directed at Scorponok, not Bumblebee.

"If you have a suggestion, Captain, I would be quite glad to hear it!" he replied over the sound of another explosion.

They were, for the moment, safe from the blasts, shielded by the metal containers littering the room. There was no telling, however, when Scorponok would tire of simply shooting, and come in for the kill. Nothing they had could protect them from that sort of assault. Something had to be done.

"Captain. Stay where you are."

"Hold up!" Lennox barked, grabbing Bumblebee's arm as he crawled past. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Shaking his head, he shrugged off the grasping hand. "When I figure that out, you will be the first to know."

Mikaela did not look up when he approached—most likely due to the gunfire covering his footsteps. For a moment, Bumblebee hesitated. Could he really ask her to do this? This was not driving a tow-truck while he shot a slow moving target. This was asking her to directly put her life on the line for a scheme that may or may not have a chance of working. At least, when she'd jumped into the truck's cab, it had been her choice, her idea. Should any harm come to her, it would be on his conscience this time around.

He was completely unprepared for her to strike at him when he touched her shoulder. She also appeared unprepared for him to be next to her, and looked shocked when she realized it was him, and not Scorponok, sprawled on his rear next to her.

It took more time than he liked to explain the plan to her, and more time still when she balked, knowing full well the extent of his request, and the outcome, should she fail. Shaking her head, she looked him in the eye, about to verbally deny him. Their eyes met—just for a moment.

But it was enough.

"I'll drive, you shoot?" he asked, offering her a weak grin along with the joke. "Then, maybe Ironhide will allow me to 'live this one down'."

"Don't count on it," she returned. "He'd probably give you shit for letting a girl save your ass."

Bumblebee decided it was best to remain silent in regards to that statement. He left her then. She knew what to do, and he had every confidence she could get the Captain's gun away from him without taking up too much precious time. His job was to get into position, not worry about her.

Keeping low, he crept from pile to pile, making sure to spend most of his time out of range of Scorponok's weapons. He was no stranger to such situations, as being a scout usually had him running some sort of similar scenario.

"Hey! Metal head! Back the fuck off!"

A shot accompanied the words, pinging off Scorponok's skull casings. Either the captain had suddenly acquired a decent falsetto, or Mikaela had managed to get into position.

Bumblebee ducked low behind the refuse of the crates and was grateful to at least have that to their advantage. He fought the need to breathe heavily as he rounded a corner, worried that Scorponok's censors would pick up his movement or location. His heart beat loudly in his ears and he felt as if it resonated through his whole body. It was distracting. He wondered again how he was not heard, even over all the blasting.

He was near enough now to make a good run at, though the size difference between himself and the Decepticon was still daunting. He must remember to commend all his friends later for even going near it.

The tail slammed down, burying itself into the concrete—an obvious sign of Scorponok's frustration. Bumblebee did not hesitate. He darted out of his hiding place, grasping the flailing appendage, and held on for dear life. Most of his comrades would call it reckless, with the exception of Jazz, who probably would have laughed and asked for a demonstration. But they weren't here. They didn't have to make the choice he did. He was the only one with any hope of pulling this off.

Feeling the sudden weight, Scorponok jerked, sending Bumblebee arching through the air. The strain felt as if it were about to tear the Autobot's arms off—he hoped such wasn't the case. He refused to let go, even when it threatened to strike him against a nearby wall.

With a buck, the Decepticon heaved itself forward, tail curving over its body as it attempted to pluck Bumblebee off with its remaining claw. This was his chance. Now or never.

He released his grip on Scorponok's tail, landing heavily on the robotic arachnid's spinal casing. It let out a shriek of surprise and began to writhe, trying to throw him off. Without hesitation, he seized a bit of protruding armor, feeling a bit like one of those cowboys he'd seen while combing the internet. Only those humans were apparently thrown to relative safety. Should he lose his grip, there was a high probability he would break something vital on the hard floor. He just had to hope this would work.

When the claw came for him, he swung his body upwards, supporting himself on complaining arms. He left Scorponok no options, no alternatives. The Decepticon would fight him on his terms. It tried scraping him off again, but Bumblebee saw the move coming, shifting his weight so that Scorponok's momentum sent him out of harm's way. Judging from the creature's shrieks, it was nearing frustration.

Something flickered on the edge of his vision. The tail. Bumblebee felt his face twitch into a grin.

_Perfect_.

He saw the tail come down, broken, battered tip still wickedly sharp. _Wait. Just wait, or all this will be a waste, _he thought. He forced himself to remain still, even as his instincts screamed at him to move. Only when the point was inches from him, too close to pull back, did he give into those instincts. Swiftly, favoring his exhausted arms, Bumblebee ducked out of the way, rolling to the ground as the tail slammed into Scorponok's spine, cutting deeply into delicate, vital, circuitry.

The screech of pain that followed was deafening. Scorponok thrashed wildly, legs tearing up concrete in uncontrollable spasms. Its whole body shuddered, unable to control its motions, sending it careening throughout the room, crashing into piles and walls as it went.

It lurched out of sight, around a pile of rubble. Bumblebee heard the sound of metal on metal, accompanied by a horrific crash sizzle of electricity. There was a low groan, and then all was silent.

Bumblebee kept frozen on the ground, staring. He did not move until the pad of footsteps announced an arrival behind him. A slim hand dropped into view, and he gripped it, letting Mikaela haul him back to his feet. She gave his shoulder a firm, thankful squeeze before turning towards the direction the Decepticon had gone.

"Bee?" she asked slowly. "Where's the Captain?"

Something cold wrapped itself around his chest. "He was… over there…"

Mikaela followed his trembling gesture. She swore, and, grabbing his arm, broke into a jog. Bumblebee followed as best he could, fighting through the cold dread and bruises forming on slowly stiffening limbs. He'd been so careless. He should have known the creature would react so unpredictably. He should have gotten the others clear. They were his responsibility. Defeating Scorponok was a hollow victory if he was forced to return to Lennox's little family with this news.

They rounded the corner, and Bumblebee braced for the worst. Instead, he nearly sank to his trembling knees with relief.

The awful sounds he'd heard had come from Scorponok. It had crashed into the beacon, breaking it neatly in half, with the top sprawled in pieces over the metal arachnid's carapace. Sparks flickered uselessly across the base. Scorponok's legs twitched feebly, a pitiable whine escaping its skull as it tried in vain to move away from its assailants.

Lennox stood before it, leaning on a hefty length of pipe, his eyes gone cold. He did not move until the Decepticon's optics focused up towards him. Only then did he lift the pipe, and without a word, rammed it through Scorponok's skull. He twisted it, sharply, sending a few shards of metal flying from the wound. Scorponok jerked once, then lay still.

"Fucking spider," was all the Captain said when they stepped up beside him.

There was nothing either of them could say—to speak felt a sacrilege somehow. Bumblebee just nodded, staring down at the corpse. As much as he hated to admit it, part of him pitied Scorponok. It was only a drone, it had little choice of sides in this war, and even less choice in whom it served.

Mikaela's hand came to rest on his shoulder again, lightly, in a gesture of companionship, of comfort. "Come on," she said quietly, voice breaking into the still, solemn moment. "Let's go."

He nodded again. If he did not rest soon, he was sure to fall over—a strange sensation, this exhaustion. Lennox did not look much better, for all his stoic façade. He allowed Mikaela to lead him away, the captain hobbling behind them, and did not once look back.

* * *

"It's not far now." 

"Easy for you to say."

"No, it isn't. I'm hauling your dead weight, if you hadn't already noticed."

The only answer Ratchet received was a grunt. Which was just as well. Ironhide was notorious for developing an extraordinarily bad temper when left on the fringe of battle, especially where their small band was concerned. He was also notorious for throwing himself recklessly into the fray—which tended to give the CMO no end of headaches.

One such headache was brewing spectacularly at the moment. Along with the rain, and the rising worry for his comrades, it was slowly beginning to drive him mad.

At long last, they reached the top of the canyon. Ironhide hauled himself the rest of the way, shrugging off any help from Ratchet. "C'mon," he growled. "We're wasting time." As an afterthought, he held out his remaining hand to pull the other up.

"Yes," Ratchet shot back. "Hauling your aft up out of a canyon in the middle of exceedingly heavy precipitation is precisely what I would call a waste of time." He waved off Ironhide's offer of help, and clambered awkwardly over the lip of the canyon. The rockslide was at their backs, the empty road before them. At least they'd managed to come up on the right side of the debris, Ratchet noted, looking the slide up and down. His foot slipped a bit on the edge, nearly sending him careening forward into the other Autobot in an attempt to keep his balance.

"You getting anyone's signals?" Ironhide grunted, steadying his friend. "Because I'm not."

Scanning the area, Ratchet shook his head. The others were either too far ahead to read, or… No, that was unlikely. Barricade would not be able to take both of them on and live. Though they were likely to sustain significant damage—an outcome he never looked particularly forward to dealing with in some cases.

The sound of heavy, limping, footsteps snapped him out of his resigned musings. Ironhide was already moving off down the road, severed arm swinging with each dragged step. With a long-suffering sigh, Ratchet headed after him. At least the rain had stopped—thank Primus.

For the entirety of the trek, the two moved in gruff, if not companionable, silence. Reaching the facility did not, however, alleviate their concerns, as they had originally thought. As near as both could tell, the door to the place was sealed, with no cracks or handholds big enough for their digits.

"These are Optimus' tracks," said Ratchet, examining the ground. Tire treads, mingled with human footprints covered the path up to the door. Among them were deeper impressions, and, worse, claw marks, scraping through slowly drying mud. "This must be the place then." Finishing his assessment, he stood back, apparently waiting.

"Well? Open the slagging door. What are you waiting for?" came the impatient voice behind him.

"I want to make sure it's all clear inside first before we go rushing in, cannons blazing," Ratchet replied, not bothering to keep the irritation out of his voice.

Cautiously, he walked the length of the front wall, checking his scanners as he went. Again, there were no signs of life directly inside the structure. He could pick up several in general, but they were a great distance away, no threat to them, should they enter here.

There came a loud creaking then the sound of metal scraping. Ratchet looked over to see Ironhide struggling to force the door open. Before he could stop the black Autobot, he had ducked inside. "I can't leave you alone for a second, can I?" Ratchet grumbled as he followed after him.

Total blackness and silence enveloped them as they stepped inside the facility. It was eerie, almost. Wordlessly, Ratchet flicked his light on, the sudden illumination painful on sensitive optics. He could see just fine in the dark. However, should they run into the humans, it might be prudent to give them something to see by, lest they flee deeper into the facility. The thought of chasing small creatures through the bowels of unfamiliar territory wasn't high on Ratchet's list of preferred activities.

"Ratchet."

He turned. The movement sent the lights bouncing across the walls. Ironhide was crouched near a support pillar, scrutinizing it with his good eye. "Scorch marks," he muttered, half to himself. "Too small for one of Optimus'. Has to be Sam." He straightened with an audible groan of abused joints.

"Can you tell how long they've been here?"

Ironhide shook his head. "Only way is to ask whoever shot 'em," he said. Metal ground as he adjusted the arm still hanging over his shoulder. "They're probably deeper in. Let's get going."

More signs of battle greeted them as they pressed on, doing nothing for Ratchet's headache, and growing trepidation. Not all the marks were of the plasma cannons Bumblebee's old body possessed. A great many of them resembled Decepticon bolts, something they both recognized all too well. If Sam had come under such heavy fire, his chances weren't what anyone could call spectacular. He might even be offline—with his attacker prowling the corridors.

Similar thoughts must have flickered through Ironhide's processor, for the older Autobot had brought his remaining cannon online, and now moved with a tension that had nothing to do with his injuries. Ratchet dropped behind him automatically, ready to provide whatever backup fire he could.

When they did encounter life, it was not what they had expected. Ratchet detected him first, and was about to warn Ironhide, but the weapons specialist beat him to it.

"Primus! Put that thing away, boy!" he growled. Despite the tone, there was an undercurrent of relief to his words. "Pay attention to your scanners before you go off shooting your superiors."

"Holy crap, you guys scared the, well, whatever outta me!"

There was a whirr, and Sam stood, dented, scored armor glowing yellow in Ratchet's light. He looked intact, save the injuries, which were more or less superficial. There was a relieved glint in his optics that said, despite being startled, he was glad to see them. Behind him, half-hidden in shadow, was a pile of twisted metal that vaguely resembled a human law enforcement vehicle. Ratchet felt himself relax by a fraction. One threat down, at least. "That was not our intention," Ratchet told the boy.

"Oh, that's cool. Chill even." Sam was bobbing up and down as he spoke. Obviously, victory was unfamiliar to the boy, and the new thrill was slow to wear off. He looked up at them, and his optics widened a fraction. "Hey, by the way, Ironhide you're totally kinda missing an arm. Y'know?"

The look the black Autobot shot the boy was nothing short of indescribable. "I was unaware," he growled dryly. "Thanks."

"Hey, just trying to keep you on the up and up," Sam said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "So there is like a bomb in the other room and the humanoids have gone missing. I really think we should start handling this now."

It took both Autobots a moment to process the rushed, breathless-sounding statement. Ratchet put a hand to his head, and waited for the inevitable explosion from his comrade.

"A_ what_?" Ironhide thundered, almost right on cue. "Where?"

Sam pointed towards a row of doors at the far end of the room. "That one, there," he said. "I was going to try and get in there, but then I didn't know where the little guys went and Optimus said to stay here—"

"Where is Optimus, Sam?" Ratchet cut in, trying to interject a note of calm. They would get nowhere if the two started a shouting match.

"Uh… there…"

Following Sam's gesture, all hope of ending the conversation on a rational note flew out the proverbial window. The boy was pointing to the same door he'd indicated the bomb to be behind. Ratchet had a hand clamped down on Ironhide's good shoulder before his friend could storm off in the direction indicated. He earned a few choice names, but did not let go.

"If you run off shooting, you could trip the bomb," the medic growled. "Stay here and make sure that—" He broke off, pointing at the inert hulk of Barricade. "—doesn't go anywhere. We need to be certain it's offline, and I have more important things to take apart. You…" Now he gestured to Sam. "Go and find the others. Make sure they're all right. If not, radio us for assistance."

Without another word, Ratchet started off on his own, already lost in thought.

"Where the frag are you going?" Ironhide called from behind him.

"Where do you think?" he retorted, waving an irritated hand in the air. "I'm diffusing a slagging bomb!"

"Uh… He always in such a great mood?" Sam ventured tentatively, after the medic was safely out of earshot.

Ironhide shook his head. "For him, that _is_ a good mood," he informed the teen. He gave Sam's shoulder a careful shove. "But you heard him. Get moving. Check the upper levels, there's no one but us down here."

Sam needed no further urging. He darted away, all but running off in the opposite direction. Thinking back, he remembered the others going up a certain hallway. If he could find that hall, chances were, he could find them. And if Scorponok was there too… well, he'd just give the bug a taste of what he'd given Barricade.

As he jogged, a voice scratched to life over his radio. _"Hey, boy?"_

_"Yeah, Ironhide?"_ Sam replied, somewhat puzzled. The old warrior sounded, dare he say it, awkward, almost. _"What's up?"_

_"Good work. With the 'Con."_

Had he been able, Sam would have grinned. _"Thanks, man. Hey, I'll call you if I need backup, all right? Otherwise, you better stay where the Doc wants you. Don't wanna lose both arms."_

_"Watch it."_ There was the barest hint of humor in Ironhide's voice. _"Just do your job and get the others back here in one piece."_

_"Will do."_


	12. Friday, 4PM to 5:30PM

12.

Friday, 4PM – 5:30PM

The gun should not have felt so familiar in her hands. But with Lennox in motion by grace of a makeshift crutch, and Bumblebee scouting ahead for Barricade, it was only logical Mikaela should be the one carrying the weapon. Even if said weapon only had one shot left at best. If worse came to worse, she could probably throw it at the attacker. It had enough weight to break a window—or an eye—at least.

Following the defeat of Scorponok, they'd carefully picked their way through the rubble, and out the hole the Decepticon had made in the doorway. It wasn't hard to backtrack. Claw-marks scored the ground, telling them exactly where Scorponok had passed. As long as they followed the creature's trail, they would, supposedly, wind up back where they'd started.

Bumblebee motioned at them to stop, and the other two complied, flattening themselves against the wall. No one spoke; they hardly dared to breathe. Slowly, the sound of footsteps reached them, coming from a far distant room. One was the regular scrape of metal against concrete, the other a heavier, off-beat tread, as if the owner were limping. Mikaela tensed, her hand tightening on the gun. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lennox heft the crutch, for use as a club. How many of those things were out there?

Ahead, Bumblebee let out a breath. He turned, grinning, to face them. "It's all right," he said. "That's Ratchet and Ironhide!"

"How the hell do you know that?" Lennox hissed.

The look on Bumblebee's face informed them the answer should be obvious. "Ironhide complains about an old hip injury quite routinely," he explained. "He always favors that leg after a fight. He's the only one I know of who moves that way. And if he is here, he must have come with Ratchet."

"Yeah, the only one 'you know of'," Lennox pointed out. "How do you know there's not some Decepti-thing out there with arthritis?"

"You want to stick around here, argue like little kids, and find out?" Mikaela asked, before Bumblebee could retort. "Or do you want to grow up, and get out of the open, just in case?"

Bumblebee all but glared. "There isn't any reason to hide," he protested. "I'm sure of this!" Turning on his heel, he stalked away, headed for a T-intersection of corridors. "I'll show you."

He didn't get very far. Even as he started moving, another set of footsteps, lighter, moving faster, sounded just down the hall. Bumblebee rounded the corner as the same time as a familiar, yellow shape, and promptly plowed straight into its shin. The Autobot took a step back, but Bumblebee went sprawling onto the ground, blood dripping from his nose.

No one moved, each member of the group too stunned for words.

"Oh shit!" said the yellow Autobot, doing an impressive imitation of Sam Witwicky. "I just killed… myself!"

That was when it sunk in—that nervous, yelping phrase. Mikaela had to stop herself from running over and throwing her arms around Sam's massive, blindingly bright ankle. Instead, she made herself help Bumblebee to his feet, while Lennox busied himself stopping the impressive nosebleed. Sam hovered overhead, offering apologies intermixed with descriptions of the battle that had raged below, his arm cannon making frequent, excited appearances to threaten the walls.

They'd done it. They were alive.

"There isn't anything, y'know like, chasing after you is there?" Sam asked, once the moment had passed.

"Nope. Count one exterminated bug," said Lennox, a hint of pride moving into his voice.

"For real?"

"If you doubt us you can check your sensors," Bumblebee said. "There won't be any trace of him." A sly smirk snuck around the torn piece of cloth he was using to stop the bleeding.

"No, I believe you," Sam responded, and for a moment they all seemed to beam in their success. Then he remembered that they still weren't in the clear. Down below, Ratchet and Optimus were still working with a very dangerous bit of explosive. Who knew how big a boom they could be facing. He had to stay focused here—no matter how distracting Mikaela was, leaning against his ankle.

"Uh guys? We should start heading back and then out. Like now," he turned and began to move quickly back the way he came, only to be yelled at by the others who were trying to keep up.

"What gives?" Lennox shouted, as the group caught up. He was behind the others, struggling on one leg as best he could. "You got an appointment or something?"

How did you tell people the building might explode around them? It wasn't something that usually came up in casual conversation. "Well, we may be facing a minor, uhh, 'structural situation'," Sam mumbled. Nervously, he rubbed at the back of his head, fingers catching on battle-roughened metal.

"What the hell does that mean?" asked Mikaela trying to match his now much smaller stride. She still had to jog, and her words were jarred by her stride.

"Evidently," Sam said, hesitantly, still trying to figure out how best to break it to them. "Decepticons have a serious hard-on for bombs. And…"

"Excuse me?" Lennox broke in and tried significantly harder to catch up.

Apparently that had not been the right course of action. Sam saw their faces pale, even the captain. They didn't look ready to panic, not yet. Which was good. He didn't know how to deal with a frightened mob, even in his current state.

"Hey Sam?" Mikaela called from near his foot. "I think if there was a good time for the whole pick-us-up-and-run bit, now would be it!" She was struggling to fight the sense of fear rising again in her chest, and her heart had started to race. This time, however, the surge of adrenaline had nothing to do with fighting giant metal arachnids.

Sam bent down and gingerly picked her up. She did not complain, only wrapped her hands tight around his thumb as he shifted her to his right shoulder. The other two were much more uncooperative when he proceeded to give them the same treatment.

"Ah! Watch the leg, the leg," Lennox complained as he was being set with the others.

"Why are all the veterans the ones getting maimed today?" Sam grumbled. He set off at a jog, trying to keep as smooth a pace as possible, to avoid throwing his passengers to the ground.

"What does that mean?" asked Bumblebee with a hint of suspicion.

"You'll see."

They made it down to the main level in record time. Sam didn't know whether it was his own apprehension, or that of his friends, that drove him on. He could feel their hands clenching tight around his armor, a sure sign of their emotions. If he'd known the terrain better, he would have transformed and gotten them out that much faster. But he trusted Ratchet to know what he was doing, and the other Autobots to warn him should things go south too quickly. There would be time to transform once they got outside.

Ironhide looked up as they came clattering down. He was standing where Sam had left him, in a pose of attention. However, he appeared to relax when he noted the humans safely stowed on Sam's shoulders. Bumblebee's reaction was just the opposite, going from limp with relief to suddenly tense. He all but leapt off his perch.

"What on Cybertron did you do to yourself?" he shouted.

"Nothing Ratchet can't fix," the old warrior grunted.

Lennox, leaning around Sam's head, called out, "Hey, big guy! Guess what. Scratch one nasty bug—" He paused, then let out a low whistle, seeing the missing limb. "Doesn't that hurt?" he asked. "Or do I not want to know?"

"The latter," Ironhide grunted. His optics flicked in Sam's direction. "Get to a safe distance. Optimus wasn't clear how big this thing is. But you'll need that buffer zone just in case."

"Got it," Sam answered. Absently, he reached up to hold a protesting Bumblebee in place. "Good luck, guys! See ya out there."

It wasn't until the boy had disappeared from sight that Ironhide took his optics off him. He'd half expected Bumblebee to have wiggled away to come to their aid before Sam could get him under control. The youngster didn't have to constantly attempt suicidal heroics prove himself. He'd done enough.

He scowled down at the wreck that had been—and probably still was—Barricade. What were they supposed to do with it? Tie it up? Yes, that would work—for about three minutes. If it were up to him, he'd put a plasma round through Barricade's spark and be done with the matter. They could always download the Decepticon's memory banks should Optimus decide they needed information from the creature. It wasn't necessary to keep Barricade alive…

_Not that the slagger deserves any better, putting us through all this. _

Sparing a glance around, to ensure no one was within earshot, he leveled his remaining cannon at Barricade's warped chestplate. At such close range, with the Decepticon's armor to act as a silencer, there wouldn't be much sound to alert the others.

A rapid-fire stream of cursing cut over the radio, causing him hesitate. Judging from the tone, and colorful nature, of the words, it seemed that Ratchet had left his communications online. Torn for a moment between rescuing the medic from whatever he'd gotten stuck in, and permanently offlining the Decepticon, Ironhide shook his head, a sound like a sigh gusting out his vents. Near as he could tell, the creature wasn't going anywhere without a great deal of help, and Ratchet's obvious frustration could put them all in line for one very big, very bad explosion.

That in mind, he turned his back on the enemy, and approached the familiar sound of a circular saw in motion. He did not see the red optics flicker, dim light igniting within briefly, before darkening once more.

Ratchet was crouched in front of a massive door, attempting to simultaneously cut the thing open, and pry it apart. With one hand manning the saw, the other could not provide enough leverage to accomplish the task, no matter how much the medic cursed, or how he repositioned himself. Wordlessly, Ironhide stepped in, lending his remaining hand. Ratchet didn't even blink, just scowled, but continued cutting.

"I thought I told you to stay with the body," he grunted.

"It's not going anywhere," Ironhide said simply. He threw a little weight into the pull, allowing the door to gape a bit.

"Famous last words."

"Says who?"

"Never mind. Hold that side steadier, or I'll miss the mark."

The saw never wavered throughout the exchange. It was slow going, but that was preferred for safety's sake. Together, they managed to pry back the doors with a screech and groan of old metal. Ratchet's lights flooded the interior of the room, eliciting an uncharacteristic oath from the form crouched within. Obligingly, the medic turned the bright beams down to a more manageable level. When they were finally able to see Optimus, their leader was frozen in place near the back wall, his hands a mess of wires. Blue optics snapped up at their entrance, then massive shoulder sagged with relief upon recognizing them.

"I'm glad to see you both in one piece," said Optimus, carefully, as if even his voice would set off the explosives in his hand. Glancing up at them again, he added, "One large piece, anyway."

Gingerly, Ratchet stepped into the room, taking stock of the situation with a few pointed glances. When his optics came to rest on the bomb itself, however, he stopped, and very nearly shuddered. Battlefield carnage was one thing, but intentional malice still managed to unnerve even the experienced medic. He shook it off quickly, to his credit. "What exactly were you doing?" he asked his leader. The light flashed over multiple wires, each one indistinguishable from another.

"Trying to find a switch of some kind," Optimus rumbled, unable to keep the frustration out of his tone.

Stepping close, Ratchet made shooing motions, ushering Optimus out of his way. Slowly, the larger Autobot complied, easing the assorted components into the medic's hands. Each move the two made was careful, calculated, painstakingly constructed to keep the bits steady. Until Ratchet could make a complete examination, there was no way to tell which piece was the catalyst. Ironhide had wisely kept his position near the door. Off-balance from the missing limb, he was the last Autobot the others wanted in the room at the moment, and he was well aware of it.

The matter seemed well in hand, until the last of the wires shifted into Ratchet's outstretched hands.

A horrendous metallic screech cut through the air. Weapons appeared in and on the hands of the warriors, adding to the terrible din. The medic froze, startled, staring at the carapace housing the explosives as the thing jerked, writhing with an unending scream of sheer terror and pain. Red optics flashed crazily. Clawed hands extended, reaching out as if in entreaty before being thrown backward by a convulsion. The wires, the delicate bits of machinery, began to pull themselves free of Ratchet's grasp.

"Hold it down!" he barked. There was no time for requests and proper titles. Not while trying to maintain a careful grasp of the squirming wiring. "Hold it down or it's going off!"

Wordlessly, two hands clamped down on the carapace's shoulders, keeping it in place and staying out of Ratchet's way. Thus steadied, the thing's cries subsided. It fell back into dormancy, mercifully silent. There was a collective hiss of air from intake vents.

"Trust the Decepticons to use this thing's pain as an alert, rather than just install a warning light or two," Ratchet growled. Tools flashed in and out of his hands, clipping here, adjusting there. "If that happens again, both of you should retreat. I cannot guarantee I can settle it a second time."

Optimus elected not to respond to that. If it came down to it, he was all for hauling the medic out by sheer force, rather than leaving him. "Did you find Sam and the others?" he asked instead. Rather than distract Ratchet, he looked to Ironhide for an answer.

"We did. We sent them on ahead," the black Autobot replied simply. "Sam reports that Barricade has been taken down," he added with a touch of pride. "And Lennox has apparently dispatched Scorponok."

Some of the tension in the commander's face dissipated upon hearing that. "Good," was all he said, and focused instead on the task of keeping the shuddering, half dead husk still.

Silence descended, broken only by grunts and curses from Ratchet as he worked. Now and then, the dying creature would let out a piteous whine, or put up a weak struggle. Its captors only tightened their grips, expressions carefully blank. The medic was not so immune. His shoulders visibly tensed, movements becoming tightly controlled, as if he feared his gestures alone would give away his thoughts.

"Problem?" Ironhide muttered.

Ratchet did not look up. "I have to cut it out," he snapped. When the other two did not immediately reply, he elaborated. "Its _Spark_. I have to remove it. It's the power source." One of his hands twitched, a poor relief for his obvious discomfort. "Otherwise, I cannot disarm it without dismantling the entire thing."

"And we need it intact, if we are to have any hope of returning Bumblebee and Sam to normal," Optimus mused aloud. He hated putting Ratchet in this situation—he understood the problem, without the other Autobot saying anything more. Ratchet was a medical officer. His programming was to save the lives around him, not end them. And, without the bomb, there was little chance of fixing Sam and Bumblebee.

Beside him, Ironhide shifted, apparently having reached a similar conclusion to his leader. "It's in pain, isn't it?" he asked. "You're putting it out of its misery. C'mon. You can do that."

"If it were as simple as that, we would have already left this place with what we needed," Ratchet retorted. But, some of the tension eased out of his shoulders, and his hands calmed. "It's almost finished…"

No sooner had that last word left his vocal processor than did the thing's screams begin again, louder, far more shrill than before. Both Autobots were nearly thrown off by the strength and suddenness of the escape attempt. It managed to worm away from Ironhide, throwing the black Autobot off balance. He went sprawling on the ground, cursing violently. Optimus all but threw himself on top of the creature, pinning its wildly waving arms against its sides. The screams took on new, improbable heights as its metal spine arched, convulsions threatening to send even the Autobot commander slamming against the wall.

In the midst of the cursing, screeching chaos, Ratchet somehow managed to plant a foot on top of vital cables. He got his hands around the exposed spark chamber, holding on grimly through the spasms. With a savage twist, the medic pulled the pulsing object loose, the strength of his pull landing him flat on his back, rapidly fading spark still safely clutched in a hand.

The reaction was not instantaneous, as they all had hoped. Dripping fluid, the thing gave one last, dying rattle, before sagging into Optimus' grip, red optics blank and dead.

Noting this, Optimus gently released his hold on the creature, allowing it to slide slowly to the floor. Such a waste, even if it had been a Decepticon. He straightened, moving to help Ratchet to his feet. The medic allowed himself to be helped to his feet, but remained silent, optics locked on the crumpled heap of metal across the room. Ironhide managed to regain his own footing, and accepted his severed limb from his commander with little more than a grunt of thanks. He too, spared a glance at the dead creature, though his expression was far less thoughtful, far more relieved.

"Leave it here," Ratchet said, after a long moment. "It will be easier than attempting to cart it off to another location. I'll return to study it once… I've put you three back in working order."

Optimus nodded slightly. "And yourself?"

The medic's optics flickered down to the now dark spark casing held in one hand. Dropping it to the floor, he gave a brief nod. He gave the husk one last look before allowing his old friend to lead him away, following their commander's unhesitating lead.

* * *

"Okay… I'm thinking of something that's… brown." 

"The sand."

"Nope, did that already, your memory's slipping."

"The rocks."

"I did that one already too. C'mon. It's not that hard."

"There's nothing else _out_ here, Sam."

"Dude, there so is. Okay, you want a hint? It's furry."

"Jackalope."

"Damn it!"

Under normal circumstances, Bumblebee would have laughed at Sam's inane questions, and his frustrated replies. However, now was not the time for such indulgences as question games, though they did, he grudgingly admitted, break up the tension. He did not share his companions' calm acceptance of dismissal, nor their confidence in the Autobots' success within the facility. There was just too much that could go wrong where explosives were concerned, no matter how careful he knew Ratchet was in regards to their diffuse.

So, instead of leaning on the yellow Camaro as the others were, he paced the muddy ground, throwing worried, expectant glances towards the yawning darkness of the open facility doors. He could tell by the captain's pose that Lennox too was impatient for a sign, though this did not stop him from making halfhearted guesses at what it was Sam was thinking of. Mikaela on the other hand was perched atop Sam's hood, leaning back on her hands, eyes turned up to the gradually clearing sky. Beneath her, the Camaro shook slightly on its suspension, answering "no" to yet another guess. The two looked, if Bumblebee had to place a guess, simply glad to be alive. He could sympathize with that, even if she and Sam expressed that sentiment through pretending his comrades were not still in danger.

Though, maybe, they did not know. And he did not know how to properly express his concerns to them. He stayed silent instead, just pacing.

Still no word from within. How long was it supposed to take? How long before he had to get them to a safe distance, and watch his brothers-in-arms go up in a ball of flame and Decepticon-constructed shrapnel?

How long before he, and now Sam, were the last ones left on Earth?

"Don't worry, kid."

He looked up, startled, and met Lennox's encouraging half-smile. The captain must have approached while Bumblebee had been drifting in his rather pensive thoughts. "We'd have heard by now if there was a problem," he continued. "You guys've had worse than a big bomb before, right? You can't worry about everyone all the time. That's for the higher-ups to do." The captain jerked his head in the direction of Sam. "C'mon back to the car. Sit down. You've got to be beat."

Confronted by a fellow soldier, by someone who understood, Bumblebee allowed himself to be led away from his vigil. Lennox was right. One of the others would have radioed if there was a problem, if only to have their little group get out of the way. He started to inform the captain of this, but stopped, feeling the now-familiar tremble of earth beneath massive feet. Pulling away from Lennox's guiding hand, he stared at the facility doors, something in his chest—_his heart_—stopping, just for a moment, as he caught sight of the origin of the tremors.

Emerging into the light was the most welcome sight Bumblebee had laid optics on in a long time. Paint chipped, armor slightly dented, but still gleaming in the sun, Optimus Prime came forward, leading a limping weapons specialist, and ever-scowling medic. None of them looked as well as they had upon their arrival to this place, though at the moment, Bumblebee was simply glad to see them alive.

Automatically, his hand snapped up into a salute, as his commander loomed overhead. Optimus' faceplate slid back, exposing the small, satisfied smile he wore. "Mission accomplished, I think," he said, meeting each of the assembled group's gaze. "Bumblebee, Mikaela, and Captain Lennox, you showed much bravery today." The assembled humans, and Autobot-turned human nodded in response, Lennox and Mikaela's faces erupting in expressions of victory. "We have you to thank for the destruction of Scorponok." This said, his bright optics turned to the transforming Camaro.

"Sam," Optimus intoned, and the teen stood as close to attention as he was able. "Once again, you prove that humans are capable of great feats. And it is thanks to you that we can count one less Decepticon threat to your race."

Suddenly sheepish in the face of the Autobot leader, Sam attempted to wave off the words. He pressed a hand to the back of his head, attempting a grin. "Hey, it was nothing. Just doing my duty as a giant alien robot bent on saving the world. Y'know?" he said. "I mean, without you guys, I would'a been screwed, but… yeah. No big deal."

This seemed to put an end to the formal debriefing, leaving the weary group free to let out their questions, and comments as they saw fit. Sam struck up a demonstration of his battle for Bumblebee and Mikaela, complete with wild gestures and dialogue taken, most likely, from too many movies. The Autobots' arrival had put his companions at ease, and the teen intended to fully explain to them his "epic battle with the crazy cop".

Sam's battle had, apparently, put him much more at ease—even where Mikaela was concerned. She was on his shoulder now, reclined against shoulder armor, balancing against Sam's jerky movements as easily as if she sat there every day.

There had been no battle to cement things for her, as it had for Sam and Bumblebee. If either of them knew where they stood in regards to their relationship, he would be surprised. Both of them looked happy enough. Whether or not they survived depended on Ratchet now, even if Sam had, for all appearances, found a place for himself within the Autobot ranks.

"And dude, Bee?" Sam was saying. "And, holy crap, you like took on the bug! At my size. I would probably piss myself. That's like videogame awesome."

Looking up at Sam and Mikaela, listening to his friend's chatter, Bumblebee had to smile. It felt more genuine than it had in days. Maybe nothing about this arrangement would ever feel right to him. But… if he could still have these moments, these triumphs, maybe, just maybe, he and the others could become accustomed enough to the strangeness.

"Thank you, Sam," he said, breaking off his train of thought. Time enough to think later. "Although, I must admit, you overloading Barricade's weapon was quite impressive in its own right."

Off to one side, the elders watched in silence, taking the moment to regain their wits before setting off on the trek back to civilization. Ratchet had begun what he referred to as "temporary reattachments" on Ironhide's arm, while Lennox watched in apparent fascination.

"How'd it go in there?" the captain asked finally, when a brief pause occurred in the medic's litany of grumbling. "No offense, but I thought you were going in to pick up a way to switch the kid and his car back to normal." He glanced over his shoulder at the younger group, where Sam was apparently pantomiming for Barricade—a feat which somehow involved a great deal of arm waving. Stifling a laugh, Lennox continued. "Well, you know. Normal as that kid ever gets. And, unless it's really small, I'm not seeing anything."

He saw Ratchet flinch. He wasn't sure how a battle-hardened robot could flinch, but there was no other way to describe the jerky movement the medic made. One sandy brown eyebrow arched.

Before he could call attention to it, Optimus answered, a bit too hastily for Lennox's thinking. "It was too firmly attached to an inner wall for it to be removed without damaging important components," he said. "Ratchet will make a study of the device here, in hopes of understanding just what about it made the switch possible."

Something was off here. For all their mechanical bodies and facial features, their mannerisms weren't terribly far off from humans, and Lennox had learned long ago how to read for signs of strain. Something had happened back there, something the medic, and the rest of them, didn't like.

Studying Ratchet, Lennox met Ironhide's scarred gaze. The black head shook, just once, in a gesture of dismissal.

_Don't ask_.

Lennox nodded in return, his curiosity far from stated. He knew from experience that he'd find out sooner or later. It was a wonder what the normally stoic Autobot let slip when swapping war stories with the captain.

"It's going to take a long while," Ratchet said, finally speaking. His voice betrayed nothing. "If I can get it to function at all, it won't be for…" He paused, searching for the right expression. "Weeks, at best. Years at worst."

"When are you going to tell the kids?" Lennox asked.

The elders were silent for a time, and he could almost see the literal gears turning in their heads. "Not today," Optimus concluded. "Tomorrow, perhaps, we can talk of more serious matters. Today is a victory. And with such should come celebration." He glanced towards Ratchet, who had stepped back to inspect the quick repair work, and was nodding with what had to be approval. "If we're prepared, we should return to the captain's dwelling."

"Great, I'll break out the booze," the captain chuckled over the sound of carefully transforming robots. "But you guys are buying."

By unspoken agreement, they left the younger set alone, with the teens piling into the still-babbling Camaro. Lennox elected to clamber up into Ironhide's cab, fully intending to pry the whole story out of the old warrior. The four vehicles sat idling, waiting for their leader's signal.

It came as the last of the clouds melted away, revealing the sun trembling on the edge of the horizon. With a roar of his engine, Optimus pulled out ahead, the others taking up their usual positions behind him. Tires churning through now-dry desert ground, the Autobots, victorious, vanished behind a rise, leaving the facility still and silent behind them.

* * *

He did not move until he was certain they had left, until their signals had faded into nothing. Only then did he uncurl his battered, broken form, and begin his slow crawl. There was nothing salvageable from this place; he sensed no reason to stay. All that mattered now was escape. They thought him dead, and that would buy him the precious time he needed to lose himself somewhere in this forsaken wilderness, where, he hoped, he could heal. 

He would have his revenge, but not now. No, that would come later, when they had become complacent in their victory. He could wait. Waiting would make his triumph all the sweeter once it came.

His shattered limbs scraped across the ground as Barricade shuffled off, taking himself deeper into the canyons, where the Autobots would never think to search.

(A/N: Only one more chapter left! Thanks for sticking with this little venture)


	13. Monday to Tuesday, Two Months Post

13. Monday-Tuesday, Two Months Post-Battle

Ratchet covered his audio receptors as a cacophony of sound erupted around him. The large pile of scrap metal he had been keeping around for use had, once again, collapsed. Judging from the scraps clutched in one hand, he had grabbed the one piece which had kept the entire pile steady. In a sudden fit of temper, he flung the offending object away, noting with some small satisfaction the crash of metal against old wood. Late afternoon sun was drifting in through the cracks in the barn walls, coinciding with his internal clock striking the hour. It was later than he'd realized, though that was not surprising.

Since the finding of the bomb, he worked quickly and without being completely aware of his surroundings. Often, he would look up, snapped out of his concentration by a noise, or other small discomfort, only to discover his attention had been on the device for well over forty-eight hours. Ironhide had been dividing his time between the explorations of the facility, and making sure Ratchet did not drive himself offline from the work and frustration. At least once, he'd been dragged bodily out of the barn by the scowling weapons specialist, who had decided his friend needed some form of distraction or another. Sam's armor was still dented from that particular misadventure.

The elder Autobots had brought the device back to the Lennoxes' barn, following their day of celebration. Once there, Ratchet had worked at it slowly, the memory of what it had been still haunting him. He found he couldn't look at it for too long, lest he see the twisted husk as they'd found it, chest ripped apart, spark protruding, claws outstretched in wordless entreaty. After making some progress, it became simply a puzzle to be solved, losing some of its stigma.

Within the first week he thought he had it figured out. Its construction was so similar to the first explosive, that pieces had begun to fall into place with satisfying speed. But now, for all his work, for all the hours spent hunched over this pathetic corpse, he was, as the humans said, at a brick wall. The frustration was wearing on his nerves. There was something missing, one little thing that he wasn't seeing! It wouldn't bother him nearly this much if he hadn't gotten so close so quickly. Now, nearly two months later, its sole purpose seemed to be to mock him.

As he heard the sound of a small engine pull up the drive way he quietly regretted that again he had no good news to give.

* * *

In the few months since the switch, Sam had managed to find a handful of roads that made for an exciting ride from the main roads to the Lennox homestead. His current favorite happened to be the one that lead from the farm to the school. 

Initially they had continued to have the captain drop the two students off at school. But, when it had become apparent that this was becoming both a bother and a long stay away from home for Sam, it had been decided that the best thing would be for an attempt to resume to normalcy. His parents had begun to ask questions that no one had answers to.

He wasn't sure exactly which part of this arrangement was worse—sitting outside, waiting for Bumblebee to finish his classes, or sitting outside, hearing snatches of conversation between his parents and his masquerading friend. Of course Miles had a suspicion that something was up with "Sam"—the boy would have to be blind not to. He said nothing, either laying the blame on the new girlfriend or simply waiting to let Sam explain. His parents were initially concerned over the changes in their son, but Bumblebee was able to convince them that his mannerisms were "just one of those phases teenagers go though". One look at his rapidly improving grades alleviated their fears somewhat, much to both Bumblebee and Sam's relief.

Seasoned reconnaissance Autobot or no, the deception wore on Bumblebee just as much as it did Sam. Imitating human vehicles was far easier than imitating the humans themselves. And so the trio, for Mikaela understandably grew tired of hanging all over Bumblebee every day, came by after school to see what the word was and simply to have a spot to finally be themselves.

_Years,_he thought to himself as he pulled in. Could he really do this for years? Not being able to speak with his friends—his human friends, not being able to go out, just to "hang out", that was torture. He missed his family too, but the higher-ups, namely Optimus and Lennox, had already decided that if it took much longer they were going to tell them what had happened. It was really the only fair thing to do.

Mikaela and Bumblebee climbed out, the feeling second nature to him now. The thought probably should have disturbed him, and yet, after so long, he simply ignored his misgivings, and transformed.

Before they even stepped into the barn, Ratchet was shouting at them to leave him be. There were no updates then, Sam realized, his spirits sinking. Was it really going to be years before a cure?

"Hey, at least he didn't throw anything at us this time," Mikaela muttered, glaring at the half-closed barn doors.

God, if he ever got out of this… he was going to spend the rest of his bank account on that girl. She sure as hell deserved it. He didn't know how she was staying sane enough to function, let alone come up with smart remarks like that. Not answering her, he just nodded, words were sticking somewhere in whatever qualified as his throat. Now what were they supposed to do? They'd come all the way out here, only to be turned away yet again.

"It isn't his fault, really," Bumblebee was saying. He'd started walking down the hill, hands shoved in his pockets to hide the stoop of his shoulders. It was obvious he was just as worn out as the rest of them, for all he tried to hide it. "We are asking a great deal of him. And Ratchet has never been known to be pleasant conversation when lives are at stake."

"I guess," Sam muttered.

Without warning, he flopped to the ground. The action nearly sent his two companions tumbling. Accepting his mumbled apology, they settled themselves as well, Bumblebee on his back, watching the skies, Mikaela leaning against Sam's ankle. He was glad for the contact, distant as it was. It was nowhere near what he wished he could do for her, or she for him, but for now, it was acceptable enough.

Bumblebee watched the clouds pass, having no access to anything that could feel like normalcy. He had tried to patrol the grounds every once in a while, but each time it was more exhausting than he was ready for, as well as time consuming. Holding up his hand to block the sunlight he again lost a moment to tracing the veins, contemplating his current state. How much longer could he hold to his duties like this? Even if his role within the Autobots had changed, was there really still a place for him?

The roar of engines cut off his train of thought. Levering himself up on his elbows, he caught sight of Optimus and Ironhide approaching over the hillside. Both were covered in dust and mud from their trek through the desert.

For a moment, Bumblebee had to fight off a twinge of jealousy.

The two elder Autobots had been patrolling the area around the facility for as long as Ratchet had been working on the bomb, looking for any signs of the escaped Decepticon. It didn't sit well with any of them that Barricade had escaped. So much of their time had been spent out there, that Bumblebee wondered why they didn't just make the old facility their base of operations.

Shifting metal and heavy footsteps hailed their arrival to the group. Their transformations had been slower than usual, more careful and methodical—betraying their weariness. Unsurprising, considering the length of time they usually spent on patrol, and the diligence of their search. Optimus gave them a nod, continuing on to the barn, but Ironhide stopped, quirking a brow after his commander. He looked down at them, obviously considering why Sam and his friends would be sitting outside, rather than getting a report from Ratchet.

"What's he throwing today?" Ironhide asked.

"Your mom," Sam muttered, studiously watching the clouds. It was rather gratifying to use so juvenile a joke after yet another day of frustration and letdowns. He heard Mikaela groan, though Bumblebee snickered softly.

Metal brows pinched in confusion. "My… what?" the black Autobot rumbled.

Sam waved a vague hand. "Y'know like..." How was he supposed to explain this one? "Uh, never mind," he finished lamely. Some things were just too embarrassing to elaborate on for giant alien robots. "He didn't toss out anything this time."

"He's in a worse mood than I thought."

"No kidding," replied Sam as he allowed himself to sit back against the ground. It wasn't that he was particularly tired, for that took a long time now, but the position was comforting.

With a shake of his head, Ironhide followed after Optimus. "Bumblebee, if I fail to return, you may have use of my cannons."

Three heads stared at his retreating back. "Dude," Sam gaped. "Was he just… kidding… just now? Was that a joke?"

Judging from the atmosphere in the barn, asking for a measure of Ratchet's temperament from Sam had been rather a waste of time. Optimus and the medic were speaking quietly, with the latter gesturing towards the husk in the corner, his expression and posture leaning towards hopeless. There were piles of scrap in every corner, most sprawled across the barn floor, some sorted neatly into what was and what was not workable. Ironhide scowled at the mess. After all the work he'd put into hauling the stuff from the poorly-termed "salvage yard"—most of the scrap there, he felt, was anything but salvageable—it irked him to see it treated with such abandon.

"I admit it, I am at a loss," Ratchet was saying, pulling Ironhide away from his survey. The medic shook his head, running a hand across his face, mimicking a human gesture of frustration. "No matter what I attempt, it is simply too unsafe to use on anyone, be they Autobot or human. At best, it would be lethal." Another head shake, this time in weary amusement. "At the worst, you would be left with a smoldering pile of carbon compounds on the part of the organic participant."

Briefly, Optimus considered asking Ratchet just how he'd come by that bit of information. He dismissed the notion quickly, deciding certain things were best left alone.

"I'm beginning to think this situation is hopeless," the medic muttered. He'd dropped to a crouching position, optics glued to the project at hand. "If we knew what went on when the… switch… first occurred… then perhaps we would stand a better chance of fixing this."

Ironhide again looked around the shop, distracted temporarily from the problem. He didn't know mechanics. He knew fifty different ways to take down an opponent using nothing more than a broken rifle. That sort of thing was his specialty. And Ratchet was not in a state of mind that was receptive to Ironhide's rather violent brand of consolation—both of them had found that out earlier. Therefore, this issue was not one he could help with. Trying to give Optimus and Ratchet space to debate, and hopefully to work, he took a few steps backwards. In doing so, his foot knocked into a well disguised scrap pile, sending it to the floor with another resounding _clang_.

"Gah! Freakin' hell!" came a shout—a familiar shout—from outside the barn.

As one, the elder Autobots looked towards the half-open door. Sam, kneeling in the grass nearest the opening, had his hands clasped around his audio receptors. He'd apparently been listening in, receptors turned up to their highest level in order to catch the conversation inside. Optimus made a soft, choking sound, stifling a laugh.

"You might as well come in!" Ratchet barked. "No use blowing out your audios for old news."

Slowly, the three filed in, looking deservedly sheepish, though Sam still held a hand to his audios. "We just thought maybe you guys could use some help," said Mikaela. Of the three, she looked the least ashamed of their antics. She looked up at the medic, meeting his optics with an unflinching stare. "It couldn't hurt. And you guys aren't getting very far on your own."

"And what could you possibly help with?" the medic all but snarled. A frustrated Ratchet was most definitely not a cordial one. He managed something along the lines of a vague apology after Optimus shot him a glare, however.

"Before our esteemed medical officer decided to cram a wrench through his aft," Ironhide interjected, receiving yet another look from an increasingly disparaging Optimus. "He suggested knowing what happened that night would be of value."

Sam blinked, optics shuttering. "What? We didn't tell you?" When none of the Autobots disagreed, the teen stared. "I can't believe we didn't… wow. Um. Our bad."

Bit by bit, the story came out, interspersed with much exaggeration on Sam's part, which was then corrected by Bumblebee. Consequently, by the time the story had finished, the sun was beginning to descend towards the horizon. There was silence afterwards, elder Autobots apparently lost in thought, and for a moment, Sam thought he'd said something wrong.

Such an idea was only enforced when Ratchet all but launched himself at the machine in the corner, optics nearly glowing. His hands hovered over it, as if unsure of what to do.

"Is he… okay?" Sam ventured, shifting to stand slightly in front of his less durable friends.

Ironhide's shrug was less than reassuring. Looking as concerned as the younger set, Optimus spoke up, taking a step closer to the medic. "Ratchet? What is it?" he asked.

"The boy stated he was the one who contacted the current first!" Ratchet said, not bothering to face them. Tools appeared in his hands, connecting this wire, tweaking that panel just so. "Bumblebee received it through him, acting as a ground. That must be it…! The organic must precede the non. The energy will ground otherwise… negating the transfer…?" Here, he trailed off into a series of mutterings that sounded suspiciously like electronic pulses that Sam couldn't begin to decipher.

While the others appeared nonplused by Ratchet's sudden burst of activity, it was new for Sam, and for Mikaela. After sharing a glance of incomprehension, he held up his hands, trying to attract their attention. "Hey, look, new guy here!" he said. "What's going on? What's he mean?"

"I mean, boy," growled Ratchet; though for all his words, it was almost possible to hear a grin in them. "That your exclusion of the facts surrounding your condition was what prevented my discovery of a possible solution. Now that I know what transpired, I can determine the best available 'cure'."

Sam suddenly stood up straight, more alert than he had been in weeks. "No shit?" he nearly shouted, body tense, ready to spring. When his question received only blank stares in response, he elaborated, not wanting to explain that particular bit of human slang. "Are you serious?"

It took only a nod from the medic to send the young ones off in a burst of excitement. Sam held up a hand, looking for a "high-five", but was defeated again by a lack of alien understanding. Instead, he settled for dropping into a transformation, peeling out across the lawn in a wild display of teenage exuberance. Mikaela was chasing him, demanding, laughing, that he get his "yellow ass back here" before he remained a car forever. Only Bumblebee remained behind, having fallen to the ground, stunned by the sudden fortune. Looking up, he met his commander's optics, and grinned, triumphantly, the first real smile for months.

True to form, it did not take Ratchet long to complete his adjustments to the apparatus. Just after sunrise the following morning, he summoned the duo, and a rather groggy Mikaela, back out to the Lennox property. No one said a word as the medic ran through what sounded like a list of rules for surviving a theme park ride, and deftly, gently, connected a series of wires to Bumblebee's body.

Said Autobot was currently finishing off the last of yet another cake of Sarah Lennox's making. He had wanted a last taste of what had become his favorite food over the last few months. And, since his predicament was nearing its end, the two most likely results of that end were both going negate his ability to taste this particular food.

Sam stood in the corner fidgeting, waiting for his turn with all the patience of a child in Disneyland. Whether he was aware of the possibility for disaster or not, he showed no signs of hesitation. He was more than done with this. Any chance to change it was welcome and he was going to come out of his skin, so to speak, if he had to wait any long.

"Sam." Mikaela broke his train of thought. One of her hands came to rest on his vibrating ankle. "Stop."

Suddenly aware of the fact that he was twitching like an overexcited squirrel, Sam stilled himself, forcing his body to sit still. He was glad of Mikaela's presence. Had she not spoken up, he probably would have wiggled his way out of whatever it was Ratchet was currently attaching to his hand. And he had a feeling the medic would take out the rotary saw, should he manage that maneuver.

With a satisfied nod, Ratchet stepped away, motioning Mikaela to do the same. She gave Sam's ankle another pat before complying, moving to stand outside the barn, where Ironhide and Optimus waited. The whole setup had a decidedly hospital-feel to it that did nothing for Sam's nerves. Should something go wrong, he could find himself in a very real ER—or, at least, Bumblebee would.

"I'm not going to spare you by telling you this is foolproof," said Ratchet, keeping his voice to an undertone. "It could kill you. Both of you. And that is the least of the potential complications." He regarded them, no malice in his face, only blunt honesty. "If either of you have reservations about this, speak up. Once I begin the process, I sincerely doubt I can halt it without great risk."

Neither Sam nor Bumblebee had to look at the other. Both shook their heads, never taking their gaze from the medic's. What they had at stake was too much to begin to back out now, not when the hope of normalcy hung almost within their reach. Too much had been done to bring them to this point. To abandon everything here would make all they, and the others, had given, a waste.

He looked at the odd technological construction again, recalling countless movies featuring a similar sort of device. Or, rather a part of the machine that occasionally had a small arc of electricity move across it in an upside-down V, dancing up and down a pair of extended wires. "Just like Frankenstein," Sam said softly.

"What?" Bumblebee looked over at him, concerned at the pause.

"Nothin' man, just thinking."

"Don't hurt yourself," Bumblebee cautioned, grinning.

"Oh, that was funny, hilarious even. You've been practicing." The seriousness of the situation had temporarily lifted and Sam was ready to go. No more hesitations, no more reservations. It was now or never. "All right, let's do it."

Air rushed out of Ratchet's vents in what Sam now knew to be the Autobot equivalent of a sigh. "Very well." He stepped back, his footsteps hardly jarring Sam at all—the teen found himself noting in these final moments. "This will be quite discomforting," said the medic. "Brace yourselves."

Without another word, Ratchet bent to the device. Whatever he did, Sam never knew, for in the next moment, his body jerked, and he felt as if he were being dipped in boiling water. Time and all sensation, save that of hot pain, ceased to exist. It was as if he were suspended over both his body and Bumblebee's, so that each movement he made was neither his, nor his friend's. He saw the human form fall, rigid, and the Autobot lurch forward, hand extending, to catch it. He heard himself scream.

And then the ground rushed up to meet him in a swirl of darkness and musty earth.

This time, he was unsure of how long he was out. It couldn't have been very long. His limbs ached, each finger feeling as if a lead weight had been grafted onto each tip. Moving them was too much of an effort. When he pried his too-heavy eyelids open, he was only aware of the sun-dappled ceiling above, and of its proximity to his face.

It was too close to be normal. Ratchet's silence from the other end of the barn only confirmed his suspicions. He felt his heart sinking, and rolled over, checking to see if Bumblebee had survived.

"Hey, Bee…?"

Yellow metal met his gaze—bright, too-cheery armor, beneath his very human hand. Sam's breath caught as the Autobot groggily sat up, shaking his head and slowly blinking, dazed. There was a soft creak of metal as Bumblebee pulled his hand away from the boy, leaving Sam sitting on his chest. For a long moment, the two were too stunned to do anything but stare, struck silent by the sheer improbability of the moment.

And then Sam was moving, rolling off of his perch to land, shakily on his own two feet. His voice worked, struggling for words, coming out instead with an incoherent whoop as he darted out the door. The open doorway gave the two still inside a perfect view of the boy as he all but tackled Mikaela, lifting her into the air with a careful, if wobbly, spin that left the two of them in a breathless, shouting heap. Their hands never left one another.

Bumblebee hauled himself upright, accepting Ratchet's outstretched hand. The medic wore a smirk, which grew into a poorly concealed grin as Bumblebee's own jubilant broadcast hit the Autobot frequencies. Moments later, the scout had whipped into a forward roll, exploding out of the barn doors, and careening into Ironhide's legs with calculated intent. The bigger Autobot went down hard, but scrambled back up in time to intercept a second, playful lunge. He threw Bumblebee, who recovered and transformed to race circles around the group before the watching humans could blink, his every move a study in exuberance. So high were his spirits, that he even dared to weave his way between Optimus' legs, extracting a low chuckle from the commander.

The noise of engines and ecstatic teenagers drew the occupants of the house out onto the porch, even at the early hour. Bemused, the captain and his wife watched as the celebration broke out on their lawn.

"If this kind of activity keeps up I say we throw in the towel on landscaping," Lennox muttered, running a hand across his unshaven face.

"They must have done whatever it was they needed to," Sarah remarked, leaning on the porch rail. "Let them celebrate. You can always lay down new sod."

She shot her husband a raised eyebrow, half-smiling when he shook his head, grumbling to himself. He slid an arm around her as they stood back and waited for it to all settle down. Neither of them fancied strolling out into the middle of a robotic wrestling match, which appeared to be Ironhide's chosen form of expression. It was preferable, however, to Sam and Mikaela's brand of celebrating. Their little display involved a kiss of passion that Lennox honestly did not think two teenagers should be capable of.

"Hey everybody!" he interrupted eventually, cupping his hands around his mouth to be heard over the roar of Bumblebee's engine. "You done? I only ask because Sarah has work and well, I like my lawn in one piece, thanks."

There was a general pause. Even the Autobots stilled, Bumblebee screeching to a halt and tearing up three-foot furrows in Lennox's much abused lawn. For Sam and Bumblebee life had, in a manner of speaking, been on hold for the past months. No one expected this to happen for so long that, even with all the best laid plans of what to do when things where back to normal, no one really was going to follow through. It was like a dream, really, to be standing where they were, arm in arm with loved ones, and tearing through the grass on tireless metallic muscles.

"Well, I guess I could kinda use a round of school," said Sam after a silence.

"Are you feeling alright?" Mikaela asked, breaking their embrace long enough to check his forehead. "Maybe this is a side-effect."

"No really!" he assured her. Smiling sheepishly, he captured her hand, running his fingers fervently over her knuckles. "I kinda miss it."

"Well, I'm not driving you. I think I may vomit if I have to see that place at all during the next week," Bumblebee growled, his engine sputtering obstinately. Then, it sank into idleness as he processed his own words. "If I were still capable of vomiting, that is."

"I think," Optimus finally chimed in. "That a readjustment period is in order. Bumblebee, you may want to do a systems check and make sure that everything is in working order."

At that, the scout transformed, gingerly shaking out his limbs, and studiously ignoring Ratchet's indignant growl that nothing should be out of order. He bounced a few times, nodding his head to his commander. To hide his smirk, Optimus turned to face the boy.

"And Sam," he said, noting that the boy no longer gaped at him when he spoke. He'd come quite a long way, that was apparent. "It is very likely that this process is both physically and mentally taxing on you. Both of you are ordered to take a brief readjustment period. Understood?"

Immediately both the responded with a quick salute. Eyes met optics, attracted by the motion, then parted with identical grins. Bumblebee transformed once again, seeming to revel in the ability, before tearing off towards the desert under the protesting shouts of Ratchet. Music blasted through the air in response, taunting, daring.

"Things are still gonna be so weird," said Mikeala as they walked into the house. Her hands were joined, permanently it seemed, with Sam's, and his arms twined tightly about her waist and shoulders.

"Yeah," Sam admitted, glancing back towards the barn, at the rising cloud of dust that marked his friend's gleeful departure. Then he made a face.

"But, it's gonna suck when my grades start going straight back to hell."

* * *

A/N: Well, that's a wrap. But stay tuned for a sequel of sorts, also co-written by IAmLazarus and I. It's tentatively titled, "The Raccoon Incident and Other Stories"—moments the Autobots would rather were left… undisclosed. Thanks for the reviews and the reading! 


End file.
